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THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


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I 



“JEAN, WILL YOU HELP ME?” 
(Page 241) 



The 

Master of “The Oaks’ 

A NOVEL 

By 

CAROLINE ABBOT STANLEY 

Author of 

“Order No. 11,” “A Modern Madonna” 


'"There’s a wideness in God’s mercy 
Like the wideness of the sea; 
There’s a kindness in His justice 
Which is more than liberty.’’ 



New York 


Chicago Toronto 


Fleming H. 

London 


Revell Company 

Edinburgh 


AND 


Copyright, 1912, by 

FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY 



New York: 158 Fifth Avenue 
Chicago: 125 N. Wabash Ave. 
Toronto: 25 Richmond St., W. 
London: 21 Paternpster Square 
Edinburgh: 100, Princes Street 


©CI.A332040 




TO 

Mtsi. ftannaft Wvaak Cornell 

TO WHOSE WISE COUNSELS I OWE MUCH 
AND IN WHOSE HOME BY THE BAY 


THIS STORY WAS WRITTEN 



CONTENTS 


L 

Wrecked 


• 

. 

9 

IL 

“Tinkling Spring’’ . 




23 

III. 

Archer McLain 




30 

IV. 

Life at the Manse . 




39 

V. 

The Money God 




50 

VI. 

Mrs. Debo Discourses on 

Men 



63 

VII. 

On the Porch . 




78 

VIII. 

Zeb Horn . 




96 

IX. 

Colonel Judd 




118 

X. 

The Old Bascom Place 




128 

XL 

Aunt Josephine Appears 




138 

XII. 

Dr. Dabney Investigates 




152 

XIII. 

Calvin Judd 




161 

XIV. 

McLain Pleads . 




176 

XV. 

An Awkward Situation 




185 

XVI. 

Tom .... 




191 

XVII. 

McLain Revolts 




206 

XVIII. 

Calvin Judd Again 




219 

XIX. 

Smooth Sailing 




237 

XX. 

Reconstruction 




243 

XXI. 

The Lure of Politics 




253 

XXII. 

The Letter 




264 


6 


CONTENTS 


6 

XXIII. The Fight 274 

XXIV. Confession 285 

XXV. The Situation Outlined . . 304 

XX VI. A New Force to be Reckoned With 326 

XXVII. They also Serve .... 337 

XXVIII. The Steady Pull .... 346 

XXIX. “No. 1066 ” 355 

XXX. Without Bells .... 368 

XXXI. God's Best Gift — Work . . . 376 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Jean, will you help me?’’ (Page 241) . Frontispiece 

The afternoon wore away, but the guests lingered 108 

“I know I have climbed that cliff one hundred 

times since in dreams” 308 

Instinctively Dr. Dabney stepped in front of her 

as if to shield her 326 


7 



I 


WRECKED 

T he man in the bed groaned without opening his 
eyes. He was in a lonely canyon as he had been 
many times before, and behind him — almost upon 
him — was a mountain lion. His only path of escape, as 
it seemed to him, was up the cliff, and he climbed des- 
perately. He had almost reached the dugway above 
him when the beast gripped his heel and held him fast. 
It was the form the distorted fancy of his dreams usually 
took, — a lonely canyon and something in pursuit. 

He tried to shake off the brute, but the lethargy of 
the nightmare was upon him and he could not move. 
He felt a savage claw upon his leg, but he was without 
power to stir. His very marrow was congealed and the 
blood in his veins turned to a sluggish flow of molten 
lead that weighed him down. If he could only call! But 
the organs of speech were palsied. Words forcing them- 
selves through his parted lips died away in an imbecile 
gurgle in his throat. And the beast was clawing him 
down! His hold was gone — the shrub he clung to up- 
rooted! The sound he uttered as together they rolled 
into the depths below rose in an inarticulate, brutish 
bellow. Then he awoke. 

It was upon a bowl of lilacs that his eyes rested first, 
and the white window drapery swayed by the breeze. 
This was not the canyon, certainly, but the pain in his leg 
was so real that he raised himself on his elbow to look for 
the brute that had torn it. He was forced gently back 
upon his pillow and a pair of kindly grey eyes looked 
into his. 

Leg troubling you a little ? ” 

9 


10 


THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


The owner of the grey eyes turned to fill a hypodermic 
needle. 

“ Yes. Where’s the beast ? ” 

The doctor laughed. ''Oh, it was a beast, was it? 
Well, anyway, that’s better than snakes.” 

He was stripping up the man’s sleeve, and the patient 
felt a sharp pin prick. " There — there ! . . . Quiet 
now — quiet — just a minute. No, don’t try to move your 
leg. Everything is all right — al-1 right.” 

The sick man ceased his struggles and submitted, partly 
because he trusted the honest eyes, but more because an 
insidious numbness was stealing over him that he did not 
even wish to resist — some subtle elixir of life was enter- 
ing his veins ; he could feel it suffusing itself throughout 
his whole being ; the world was growing roseate ; a great 
peace fell on him ; the beast was gone. 

" He’s off,” remarked the doctor to a companion who 
had stood in the background. " He responds beauti- 
fully. This sleep will give his leg a rest and his brain 
too. When he wakes from it it will be with a clear 
mind, I’m thinking.” 

" Morphine is a great blessing to mankind, doctor,” 
mused the elder man as he surveyed the conquered form. 

"Yes — and a great curse. Nobody knows that better 
than a doctor. Sometimes, Dr. Dabney, I think the Cre- 
ator must look down in disgust to see the base uses to 
which His good gifts are put — morphia, most of all.” 

" He made us,” said the old minister, gently. " He 
knows our weaknesses. I am always glad to fall back 
on that, William. How long do you think this young 
man is likely to be tied here ? ” 

" That’s one of the things no man can tell. It was a 
beautiful fracture, and is likely to heal by the first in- 
tention. But, you see, in these cases so much depends 
upon the patient’s previous life. This young fellow looks 
as if he had good clean blood in his veins, but whether 
he has or not remains to be seen. At the very best he 


WRECKED 


11 


is likely to be here a good many weeks. You certainly 
undertook a large contract, doctor, when you opened 
your house to the victims of this wreck.'' 

As a man and a Christian I couldn’t have done less," 
^aid Dr. Dabney, simply. “ It was only my cup of cold 
water." 

‘^You’ll have a chance to extend several cups, I’m 
afraid, before this young fellow gets through. The others 
will be off your hands soon, I hope. Where's Jean?" 

“ Out in the yard with Mrs. Gilmore’s baby getting a 
breath of fresh air. It is about the first time she has 
left her ' ward,’ as you call it. I think she is proving a 
very capable nurse. Her patients are loud in her praise, 
at any rate." 

She is one of a thousand," declared Dr. Llewellyn, 
with professional enthusiasm. '"A trained nurse could 
hardly have done better. Why, she administered chloro- 
form to Mrs. Nellis for that dislocation as steadily as a 
doctor. I was a little afraid to have her do it — I 
shouldn’t have called on her if I had had anybody else—* 
but I hardly thought I could trust your sister." 

" Oh, no ! — no ! Not in an emergency." 

“ So I thought. But Jean — why. Dr. Dabney, that girl 
has nerve and decision and determination enough for 
three women. I feel as if I really never knew her until 
you started this hospital here. Where did she get all 
these traits ? " 

Her mother was not lacking in determination and de- 
cision of character," replied the minister, thoughtfully, 
ignoring the implication that they had not come through 
the paternal line, " nor in nerve, I suppose, though I 
don’t know that that was ever tested except in the matter 
of her marrying me. That possibly required all the stern 
virtues that you say you have observed in Genevieve. 
It certainly precipitated enough of a storm upon her 
head. Are you acquainted with my sistcr-in-law, Mrs. 
Alexander ? " 


12 


THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


Dr. Llewellyn chuckled. 

“ Enough so to guess at the strength of her opposition 
if she should take it into her head to oppose.” 

“ She took it into her head to oppose most decidedly. 
In fact, her opposition has never ceased, though my poor 
Mary has been beyond the reach of it for many long 
years.” 

She can’t forget it, eh ? ” 

She has never left me in doubt that she considers 
her sister’s marriage to me a calamity. For a city girl 
of wealth and family to throw herself away upon a 
country parson seemed to her — and still seems — the direst 
of misfortunes. I am not sure but she is right — and 
still ” — his quizzical tone softened and he took off his 
glasses and rubbed them absently — we were very happy. 
I think we would always have been had she lived. 
Genevieve is very like her, doctor. I’ve watched it 
closely. She too, I think, would find it possible to make 
great sacrifice for one she loved, and even to brave 
opposition, as her mother did. I trust ” — he shook his 
head slowly — “ I trust the occasion may never arise.” 

“ She is finding it possible to make great sacrifice for 
strangers at present,” remarked the doctor, drily. I 
don’t believe she has slept five hours in twenty-four in 
the whole week since these people landed here; and this 
breath of fresh air is the first I’ve heard of. Why don’t 
these women and children go home? They are able to 
travel and I’ve told them so. It’s an outrage — on you, 
and Jean, and Aunt Phyllis. This is no hotel.” 

‘‘They will go in good time, .William. I have urged 
them to stay until they have recovered from the shock 
of this accident. A railroad wreck is a nerve-racking 
thing. Mrs. Gilmore now is greatly shaken. It seems 
hard for her to regain her poise.” 

“Yes, and she will take two months in the process 
if you continue to provide her with cool, airy quarters, 
a nurse for her children, and such fried chicken as Aunt 


WRECKED 


13 


Phyllis can cook ! I want you people to save yourselves 
for the nursing of this young man. He can’t go.” 

“They’re thinning out, William. Mrs. Nellis goes 
to-morrow. Her husband comes for her to-day. The 
Gilmores will go in a few days, I think.” 

“ I’ll step in and see Mrs. Nellis before I go,” said the 
doctor, rising. “ Can little Ephraim sit with the patient ? 
There is a bare possibility that he may be nauseated by 
this morphia, and he’d better have somebody with him.” 

“ Ephraim has gone to the station with a telegram. 
I’ll call Je ” 

“ Don’t call Jean ! Let her stay downstairs as long as 
she will. Perhaps Miss Lavinia could come up for a 
short time.” 

“ I’ll speak to her,” said the minister, a little doubtfully. 

“ Tell her there’s no responsibility. She can bring her 
sewing if she wishes. I only want her to sit by him 
while he sleeps. You needn’t say anything about nausea. 
Quite likely he will not have it.” 

When Dr. Dabney returned from delivering the mes- 
sage the physician remarked, “ I’d rather like to be here 
when he comes out of this sleep, but I have to go down 
the road to see old Mrs. Dunklin. She’s down with 
lumbago again. Ah, good-morning. Miss Lavinia. How 
are you to-day ? ” 

“ Pretty well, thank you, doctor,” fluttered Miss La- 
vinia, looking nervously toward the bed. “ You think I 
can 

“ Certainly ! There’s nothing to do. I know of no- 
body that can do that better in a sick room than you 
can — nobody.” 

His tone was so deferential and gallant that Miss 
Lavinia raised a deprecating hand. “ Oh, no, no, doctor! 
Even Jean, inexperienced as she is, could do it better.” 

“ Indeed she couldn’t,” he assured her warmly. “ You 
see, it is only to have somebody here in case he wakes — 
and something pleasant for him to look at when he does. 


14 . 


THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


ril step in, Dr. Dabney, on my way back from Mrs. 
Dunklin's. Good-morning, Miss Lavinia." 

Left to herself with the sick man, Miss Lavinia Dab- 
ney, a sweet-faced gentlewoman of fifty or more, with 
stooping shoulders and an irresolute mouth, sat down in 
a rocker somewhat removed from the bed, and nervously 
smoothed her white apron. The doctor's compliment, 
taken at a trifle more than its face value, had given her 
some confidence, and still she was afraid to stir lest she 
should precipitate the calamity of an awakening. But 
the man slept on the deep sleep of the narcotic. 

Emboldened by his insensibility to sights and sounds, 
and feeling the impossibility of settling herself to so 
commonplace a thing as darning in this mysterious pres- 
ence, Miss Lavinia, after sitting at a distance for what 
seemed to be hours, lifted her chair cautiously and ad- 
vanced upon the enemy, putting on her glasses for better 
inspection. It was the first time she had really had a 
good look at him, and she was not devoid of what some 
persons consider the most salient characteristic of her 
sex. 

What she saw was a handsome, boyish face under a 
mass of slightly waving brown hair cropped close at 
the sides. Even a week's growth of beard could not hide 
the firm lines of the mouth and a chin chiselled like a 
cameo. The forehead, partly hidden by a bandage, was 
high and broad, but between the brows were two tiny 
deep-set lines, as though the young man had a habit of 
contracting them. 

''Wrinkles! That’s strange! It couldn’t be care, 
at his age,” mused Miss Lavinia, who prided herself 
upon being something of a physiognomist. " I don’t be- 
lieve he can be more than twenty-four — just Henry's 

age when ” A softly breathed sigh filled out the 

sentence, and the tears welled in Miss Lavinia’s eyes, as 
they did sometimes even yet after the lapse of thirty 


WRECKED 


15 


odd years at the thought of her young lover and his 
untimely end. “ I wonder if he has a wife, poor fellow ! 
or — a sweetheart.” 

Miss Lavinia’s romance, which was a hidden one, 
seldom referred to but much dwelt on in a gentle, reminis- 
cent spirit of submission, made her very tender toward 
lovers. 

A long time she sat there weaving romances about this 
youth, — romances in which, strangely enough, she and 
Henry somehow had a part. . . . Suppose — suppose 
Henry had not died. Suppose that this were he come 
back to her from that far-off land to which he journeyed 
in such hope — to return no more. Miss Lavinia pressed 
a withered hand to her heart, which fluttered with the 
vehemence of eighteen. . . . Or, granting that these 
were too wild and foolish fancies to be given place in 
mortal brain, suppose it had been given to her to sit 
beside him in his illness thus ; to minister to him ; to hold 
his hand. Miss Lavinia laid her little withered, blue- 
veined hand upon the passive one resting on the white 
counterpane. The sick man stirred slightly at the touch, 
and she hastily slipped her fingers to his pulse, — a per- 
fectly impersonal and correct position for a nurse. 

But even this semi-professional contact and the sight 
of the youthful face stirred her to thoughts sweet and 
tender and innocent, but which not for worlds would she 
have voiced. It was the maternal that was speaking 
now. . . . Suppose . . . suppose this were her son 
(she looked around her with startled glance, fearing lest 
some one might hear the unspoken thought) — it might 
well be — it was thirty years since Henry died. How 
proud, how happy she would be, how blest, to have a boy 
like this as a support for her declining years! True, 
Jean was like a daughter to her, and she had tried to 
be a mother to her, but to have a son-— her own-— her very 
own! 


16 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


“ My son ! ” she murmured in sweet ecstasy, bending 
toward him. '' My son I My son ! ** 

A sudden and prosaic end came to Miss Lavinia’s 
dreams. The scissors resting in her well-starched lap 
had during this reverie been slowly but steadily travelling 
down an inclined plane. They fell now with a clang that 
reached even the dulled senses of the sleeper. He 
opened his eyes and looked about him without moving. 
Apparently he was alone, for by this time Miss Lavinia 
was on the floor struggling with a concatenation of events. 

Startled by the falling of her shears she had in her 
excitement pushed her chair against the table and over- 
turned the toppling bowl of lilacs, precipitating a stream 
on the floor and the table cover, seeing which. Miss 
Lavinia promptly abandoned her new-found role of nurse 
and phantom wife and mother, and found the more accus- 
tomed one of thrifty housewife at the front. Righting 
the lilacs in the vase, she fell on her knees, and with a 
towel fortunately at hand was mopping up its spilled 
contents. Seeing nothing of this and supposing he was 
alone, the man mechanically took in such of his surround- 
ings as were within his range of vision, — walls with green 
ivy climbing over a white ground ; a white iron bed with 
spotless coverings ; a glimpse of cool matting with woven 
rugs of white and green. He turned his head slightly 
to follow the line of the rug, and came upon the lilacs 
and the white drapery of the window blowing softly. . . . 
He had seen those before. . . . Where — had he — seen 
those lilacs? 

As he lay idly speculating on this a little woman rose 
from the floor, nervous and flurried, almost at his side, 
and cast an anxious look at him. He was apparently in 
a deep sleep, seeing which Miss Lavinia turned her atten- 
tion to the table cover and the lilacs. Perceiving from 
one corner of his eye that her back was toward him he 
watched her movements with interest. He certainly had 
never seen her before, but perhaps she might furnish him 


WRECKED 


IT 


the clue. He needed it certainly, for through the open 
window there fell upon his city ears strange, unaccus- 
tomed country sounds, — a distant cow-bell’s tinkle; the 
baying of hounds a great way off ; the loud cackle of a 
hen triumphant; and the noisy, strident Vot-rack! pot- 
rack!'' of a flock of guineas. 

The table restored to its normal state. Miss Lavinia 
turned once more to her sleeping patient. He was watch- 
ing her with amused, wide-open eyes, which startled her 
so that she dropped her cloth and beat a precipitate 
retreat. 

‘‘Jean,” he heard her call in a low voice, apparently 
down a well, " Oh, Jean! ” 

“ What is it. Aunt Lavinia ? ” 

“ I — I think — he is going to wake ! ” 

“ Well ! Let him wake.” It was a rich, full voice 
and had a note of laughter in it that was infectious. 

“ But — I don’t know what to say to him.” 

“ Don’t say anything. Let him say it.” 

“ Honey,” — the voice was almost pleading — “ I think 
you had better come. I — I have had an accident, and I 
am very much perturbed.” 

“ All-l right, auntie. I’ll be there in a minute.” 

He heard faint footsteps going down the stairs and 
then more vigorous ones ascending, and in a moment the 
doorway framed the picture of a wholesome, bright-faced 
young girl in a house dress of pink gingham, and a baby’s 
arms around her neck. The vision seemed to fit in with 
the neat, pleasant room. 

She smiled frankly into his wide-open eyes. 

“ Good-morning. Aunt Lavinia thinks you are going 
to wake.” 

“ I am afraid I am. Is it so reprehensible?” 

“ On the contrary, I should say it was most com- 
mendable.” 

She seated herself in the vacated chair and set the 
baby on her knee. “ After a week’s sleep I think a man 


18 THE MASTER OF THE OAKS ” 

might be permitted to wake without criticism, don’t 
you ? ” 

“ A week ! Have I been here a week ? ” 

‘*You have/’ she told him, composedly. “Just one 
week to-day.” 

“ Where am I ? Whose house is this ? And how did 
I come to be here ? ” 

“Aren’t there a few more things you would like to 
know all at the same time? Don’t hesitate to ask ques- 
tions. I find that a few people have to be ‘ shown ’ who 
are not from Missouri. And you really are in Missouri, 
and it seems to be getting into your system.” 

He noticed now that her mocking eyes were brown and 
that the mass of hair crowning her well-shaped head was 
of the same colour with a glint of gold in it where the 
sun touched it. 

“Yes,” she continued, “you really are in Missouri; in 
the home of Dr. Dabney, my father, pastor of the Presby- 
terian Church ; and you were brought here on a shutter. 
I believe that answers your questions in their proper 
order. Don’t you remember anything about the wreck ? ” 

“ The wreck ? ” He closed his eyes in thought, to open 
them almost immediately. “ Was it a wreck? I remem- 
ber a grating noise and then a crash that threw me out 
of my seat. I think I must have been struck senseless, 
for I can’t seem to recall anything else except a great 
noise and screaming. . . . And it was a wreck ? ” 

“ It certainly was a wreck. No doubt of it at 
all.” 

“ And that is why I am here ? ” 

“ Yes. Father had some of the injured brought here 
(ours happened to be about the nearest house) until they 
could communicate with their friends or go on their 
journey after the road was open. They are nearly all 
gone now. This is our youngest. Her mother was in- 
jured slightly — ^very slightly. Dr. Llewellyn says. Isn’t 
she a dear? ” 


WRECKED 


19 


She held up the baby, who crowed and threw out her 
hands in entrancing baby fashion. 

“ So far as I am a judge I should say she was — a 
dear.'’ But he was not looking at the baby. 

Would you mind telling me,” he said after a pause 
during which she played '' Creep, mousie ” with the child, 
eliciting shrieks of delight, '' what is the matter with my 
leg? I can’t seem to move it.” 

She thought a moment before she answered him. 
Then, looking into his clear eyes in which there was no 
sign of fever or delirium, she decided that the thing to 
do was to tell him the truth. 

It was broken in the wreck — just above the ankle. 
It is what Dr. Llewellyn calls a ' beautiful fracture,’ heal- 
ing by — or is it zmthf — no, I think it is by — ^healing by 
the ' first intention,’ whatever that is. I always supposed 
that sober second thoughts were best, but it seems not — 
in the case of fractures. It really is doing finely, the 
doctor says, and there is not the least occasion for alarm. 
You have only to be patient and wait. And you are in 
good hands.” 

I can see that ! ” 

I mean that Dr. Llewellyn is an excellent physician 
and you need not worry. Now doesn’t it make you feel 
better to know the truth ? ” 

She really was in doubt as to whether she ought to 
have told him so much and wanted to be reassured. 

It certainly does. I was afraid I was paralyzed.” 

“No, indeed. It is just an ordinary fracture. Dr. 
Llewellyn told me to use my judgment about how much 
to tell you when you woke, and you seemed so clear- 
headed and rational I thought it was best to tell you the 
truth. I think that is the wisest way to do about every- 
thing, don’t you? — if you can.” 

“ Yes,” he repeated, rather lifelessly, “ if you can.” 

“ I am afraid I am tiring you,” she said quickly, with a 
motion to rise. 


20 


THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


** No, no ! ” he protested, eagerly. Don’t go ! I want 
to ask what made me sleep a week if the leg is doing all 
right.” 

** I suppose it was the blow on your head. The doctor 
says so. He was a little doubtful about that, but he said 
if you woke with a clear mind you would be * out of the 
woods,’ to use his exact expression.” 

The young man put his hand to his head, letting it slip 
down the side of his face. 

Whew ! this beard is — could I get at a barber around 
here ? ” 

“ Hardly ! We don’t live in a barberous community. 
There! I didn’t mean to inflict a pun on a defenceless 
man, but it slipped out ' unbeknownst,’ as Aunt Phyllis 
would say.” 

‘‘ Do you know what the Autocrat says about a pun ? ” 
he demanded in mock severity. 

“ Yes,” she flashed. That ' it doesn’t usually justify a 
blow in return.’ ” They both laughed to think she was 
ready for him. It pleased and surprised him that he did 
not have to explain to this country girl who the Autocrat 
was. “ Well, I counted on your helplessness. But 
really,” returning to the barber, you know this isn’t the 
city, and in the country every man is the architect of his 
own beard. Still — I don’t know — perhaps ” 

She went to the door then, the baby clinging to her 
neck, and called: 

Little Ephrum!” 

A black giant appeared noiselessly as if at the clap 
of a geni’s hands. The man was in reality there with a 
telegram, and was in slippers, ready for the sick room. 
He had been there many times before in the last week, 
but the sick man did not know that. There seemed some- 
thing positively uncanny in his instant and noiseless 
appearance. He seemed like one of the eunuchs of the 
Arabian Nights. 

Yaas’m,” he said. 


WRECKED 


£1 


Little Ephrum, this gentleman, Mr. ” She looked 

toward the patient. 

McLain,’' he smiled, — Archer McLain.” 

“ Thank you. Mr. McLain feels the need of a shave. 
Could you give him one ? ” 

The negro shook his head doubtfully. '' I dunno, Miss 
Jean, whether I darst to or no.” 

You have done it.” 

“ Yaas’m, I shaved yo’ paw when he was gittin’ up fum 
do fever. An’ I done shave Uncle Adam when he was 
daid, — an’ he was lay in’ down too, jes’ lak dis gentleman. 
Maybe ” 

“ You are excused, Ephraim,” came a decided voice 
from the bed ; “ if Miss ” 

“ Dabney. Jean Dabney,” laughed the girl. 

“ if Miss Dabney will excuse my appearance.” 

“ Oh, don’t worry about that ! You do seem to need 
a shave, but appearances are often deceitful. That’s all, 
little Ephrum. . . . Give me the telegram.” 

The man in the bed looked after the retreating form 
of the dusky giant, a quizzical smile on his lips. 

“ I suppose you are laughing at my barber.” 

** No. I was only wondering how large * big Ephraim ’ 
might be.” 

The laugh that rang out then was like the carolling of 
a bird, spontaneous and bubbling o-^er. 

'' I wish you could see ' big Ephraim ’ ! He is about 
as tall as I am and looks like a withered potato. You 
see, this one was named for his father and was called 
* little Ephraim ’ to distinguish them. The name has 
stuck to him, though he has really outgrown it. I be- 
lieve he is six feet two. I can imagine how it strikes 
you. But I really must take this telegram to Mrs. 
Nellis.” 

At the door she paused, and he remembered her long 
afterwards as she stood there, the child’s face pressed 
close to hers, its chubby arms encircling her neck — the 


22 


THE MASTER OP ‘‘ THE OAKS ” 


most becoming necklace a woman can wear, somebody 
has said. 

Wouldn’t you like something to eat after your long 
fast?” 

*'Why, yes.” A zest in life and its appetites was 
rapidly coming back to him. “ I believe I should.” 

How about broiled chicken on toast ? ” 

“ That sounds good to me ! ” 

“Well, you can’t have it — of course! I only asked 
to test your appetite. But maybe I’ll bring you some 
chicken broth — if you are good.” 

When she was gone he lay quite still, thinking of the 
madonna picture she had made in the white frame of the 
doorway, and marvelling at her naturalness and ease of 
manner. If he had been her brother or her grandfather 
she could not have shown less self-consciousness in meet- 
ing him, a stranger. . . . How she had caught him up 
on the Autocrat! He smiled as he thought of it, and 
again at the remembrance of her laugh. Then his eyes 
went back to the wall-paper and the ivy. It climbed and 
climbed in such a senseless way, for it never seemed to 
get anywhere. 

He closed his eyes at last to shut it out. 


II 


“TINKLING SPRING” 

HE community into which Archer McLain had 



been so unceremoniously flung by a railroad 


wreck, and to which he seemed likely to be 
chained by a broken leg, rejoiced in the rather musical 
name of the ‘‘Tinkling Spring neighbourhood.” 

It took its name of course from the church, for the 
church antedated the post-office by a good many years, 
having been organized away back in the thirties, when 
a post-office was a luxury and a place of worship a 
necessity. And small wonder when the Gospel was so 
nearly free and letters twenty-five cents apiece, paid on 
delivery. 

The Tinkling Spring Church as it stands to-day is an 
evolution. The germ from which it sprang was built 
of logs hewed and laid by sturdy pioneers who came, 
some of them, twenty miles — came joyfully too, for this 
was when log-rolling was in its best estate — to build a 
house where they might sing the Lord’s songs in a 
strange land. Over the primitive structure, they raised 
that day away back in the century’s youth the blue banner 
of their Scotch-Irish ancestors, and there it floats to-day ; 
for though generation after generation of the fathers 
have fallen asleep, there has always been somebody left 
to hold up the banner. 

The name of that rural sanctuary was not, as might 
readily be supposed, derived from some cooling spring 
that bubbled in the vicinity, but from a homesick fealty 
of the new settlers for the old home church in the 
Shenandoah Valley, where springs do abound. “Tink- 


28 


24 * 


THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS 


ling Spring ’’ it had been in the hill country of Virginia, 
and Tinkling Spring ” it became in the lowlands of 
Missouri, without suspicion of humour marring the joy 
of the christening. Somehow the name seemed to bring 
them nearer to the Old Dominion, which was the mother 
of some of them and the grandmother of the rest. 

The Tinkling Spring Church was old School,” and 
by that token one would suppose sufficiently strict; but 
in the neighbourhood at the time of its organization were 
several families of Scotch Seceders,” who by inheritance 
held in low esteem Mr. Watts and his man-made hymns, 
— they having long cherished the conviction that no words 
could be 9, vehicle of divine praise equal to the words 
of Scripture itself. 

It is difficult for us to understand the affection of the 
Scots for their metrical psalms, but as one writer has 
said of this : “ Affection is not to be explained.” They 
certainly cleaved to them in the Tinkling Spring neigh- 
bourhood at that date. 

But whatever division of opinion there was at Tinkling 
Spring about metrical psalms there was none at all about 
the advisability of securing the Seceders,” so it was 
agreed that at each public service one of the hymns 
should be from Rous's Version, as it was called. Imagine 
then the grizzled fathers and godly mothers in this fron- 
tier Israel singing in all gravity : 

“ I fainted had, unless that I 
Believed had to see 

The Lord’s own goodness in the land 
Of them that living be. 

“For he in his pavilion shall 
Me hide in evil days; 

In secret of his tent me bide 
And on a rock me raise.” 

Or asking with united breath the somewhat enigmat- 
ical question; 


“ TINKLING SPRING ” 


25 


**What profit is there in my blood, 
When I go down to pit? 

Shall unto thee the dust give praise? 
The truth declare shall it?” 


Certainly the fathers, however superior to us, their 
children, in piety and religious zeal , — were deficient in 
a sense of humour. The conclusion is inevitable when 
one (even with the most reverent intent) essays to read 
the metrical versions of early times. 

But if it was not very smooth-flowing poetry it served 
its purpose in the new church, for it secured the support 
of several families — which was a good deal at this junc- 
ture — and in a few years, having gained their point, they 
were singing Watts and Toplady with the rest, and Mr. 
Rous and his metrical version were relegated to the shelf. 
What a lot of human nature there is in us — even when 
we are godly “ Seceders ” ! 

The Tinkling Spring Church thrived as an oak grows 
strong — from the buffeting of the winds. Its first min- 
ister rode through an unbroken forest a distance of fifty 
miles from a river port once a month, and the brethren 
drove to hear him over roads yet to be made, it almost 
seemed. 

Nor were these the only struggles they passed through. 
Scotch-Irish Presbyterianism is a robust kind of Chris- 
tianity. The fathers held strong opinions and promul- 
gated them from the shoulder; but if they fought for 
their convictions it was because they were convictions 
and not conjectures. The religious thinking of the com- 
munity was in deep ruts. Conservatism and respect for 
precedent were as deeply imbedded in the heart of Tink- 
ling Spring as in the soul of an English peer. 

It was a self-absorbed community, as most country 
neighbourhoods are, perhaps. A timely rain or an un- 
timely frost was more to them than the great principles 
of conservation; and the question: What shall we do 


26 


THE MASTER OF «THE OAKS” 


with the Hungarian human hordes pouring through Castle 
Garden? a far less momentous one than: How shall we 
rid ourselves of the Hessian fly? 

There were people who wondered that a man of Dr. 
Dabney’s scholarship could be content to bury his talents 
in a country church, — ^but the good doctor had given 
scant encouragement to the expression of these views. 
Like most youthful divines he had had his vision of wide 
fields of influence and growing city congregations, but it 
faded in time; for to a scholarly mind seclusion has its 
charms, and then as the years went by he came to see 
that it was more the quality of the tillage than the 
breadth of the field that counted. 

When love came to him and with all love’s inconsistency 
came through a high-born city girl instead of a country 
maiden of his own flock, the enticement of wider fields 
came back to him, but he had come to feel that his people 
needed him and that he needed them, and he went to 
Mary Charlton and laid at her feet a man’s love and — 
an obscure country life, telling her that he was bound 
to it by a love passing the love of woman. It did not 
sound exactly complimentary, but somehow she liked 
him the better for it, and the result was that one day 
he bore this same Mary Charlton of St. Louis to his 
country home, where they set up their household gods 
with great joy and content. Miss Charlton’s family was 
far from accepting the simple life for her with the com- 
placency which she manifested. She was the youngest 
daughter of an old and wealthy house, and her family 
had expected her to form a brilliant alliance. That it 
should eventuate in nothing more than a happy marriage 
was extremely disappointing. 

They had but a brief life together. When her baby 
girl was three days old that brave, undaunted spirit that 
had defied her family faced the inevitable, and smiling 
up indomitably into her husband’s eyes to the last, went 
out into another unknown country. 


« TINKLING SPRING ” 


^7 

There are few things in this life more pitiful than a 
young father suddenly left alone with a new-born infant 
in his arms. To be “ smitten with the anguish of in- 
exorable separation,” as Dr. Van Dyke has so touchingly 
phrased it, and at the same moment to have thrust upon 
him a responsibility for which he is and must ever be 
inadequate, — this is hard indeed. Poor William Dabney, 
walking the floor with this little mite of humanity pressed 
close to his aching breast, felt it to be all of this. And 
yet — she was his own, his very own, and — Mary’s. From 
that time to the present she had lain on his heart, a 
precious burden. For whoever, be it man or woman, 
becomes father and mother both to a little child is bound 
to it thereafter by a double cord. 

Mrs. Alexander, Dr. Dabney’s sister-in-law, had written 
at once to say that while she could never forget her 
sister’s disregard of her family’s wishes, she was willing 
to forgive and to do her duty. He might look for her 
the next week to take the baby home with her. But she 
must stipulate that she should have entire control of it, 
for she wished to rear the child as a Charlton. 

To this the young minister made haste to reply by 
telegram : 

‘‘ Don’t come. I shall keep the child.” 

Then he and Miss Lavinia, who knew no more about 
infant culture than the Babes in the Wood, set themselves 
to their onerous task, calling to their assistance one who 
proved a tower of strength — Drusilla Debo. Mrs. Debo 
came from down on Goose Creek, which to the initiated 
settles her social status. But if “ the creek ” never pro- 
duced any other good thing it should be remembered 
with gratitude because it gave to the world a Drusilla. 
What Dr. Dabney and his timid, irresolute maiden sister 
would have done without her at this juncture they never 
dared to contemplate. The ease with which she manipu- 


38 


THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


lated the tremendous responsibility done up in swaddling 
clothes, and the infallibility with which she could trace 
a wail to its source and apply a specific, caused the won- 
dering minister to retire to his study many times, there 
to reflect upon the inadequacy of the higher learning as 
a preparation for the emergencies of life. 

Mrs. Alexander came — with a nurse and a travelling 
outfit for the baby. She was not the type of woman to 
be stopped by a telegram. She returned empty-handed 
after a fierce-fought battle. 

Lavinia Dabney is no suitable person to bring up a 
child,’' was her argument. She is an old maid ! ” 

Mrs. Alexander was one of those who conceive that 
maternity bestows upon women some occult governing 
skill unattainable by the childless, regardless of the fact 
that the mother of ten often proves herself unfit to be 
the trainer of one; and unaware in her blindness that 
the dear Lord sometimes gives to one the child, and to 
another, as compensation, perhaps, the maternal instinct. 

“ My sister will give this child tender love and material 
care,” returned the young minister, “ and by God’s help I 
will do the rest. It is settled, Mrs. Alexander.” 

Then, in answer to the accusation that her sister’s 
child was to be kept from her, “ Not at all. Should you 
desire at any time to visit my little daughter my home 
is always open to you.” 

Mrs. Alexander, who had proifered her services in the 
first place somewhat with the air of a martyr, but found 
her desire for the infant strengthening with each round 
of the contest, did not avail herself of this invitation until 
her niece was four years old, at which time she came up 
for a week’s visit, bringing with her her son Tom, three 
years older than the little Genevieve, and a living refuta- 
tion of his mother’s theory that maternity confers govern- 
ing power. 

A week is a short time, but it was long enough for the 
visitor to weight Miss Lavinia down with the principles 


« TINKLING SPRING ” 


29 


of child-training suitable for this descendant of the 
Charltons. After one of these dissertations, which left 
Miss Lavinia browbeaten and depressed, Mrs. Alexan- 
der turned to her small niece with some directions as to 
what she must and must not do. The child, dimly con- 
scious that Aunt Lavinia, whom she adored, was on trial 
and the case going against her, stepped between her and 
the prosecutor. Planting herself before her maternal 
aunt and looking her square in the eye, her hands behind 
her back, she announced succinctly and with something 
of her fathers quiet dignity : 

My papa is the bosst of me ! ” 

Miss Lavinia was overcome with shame at this imme- 
diate proof of her incapacity to rear a child ; but strange 
to say, it delighted Mrs. Alexander, who saw in it, as 
she said afterwards, such a flash of the Charlton spirit 
that she took her niece to her heart then and there, and 
proved it by spending a month each year thereafter in 
her brother-in-law’s home, choosing naturally that part 
of the year when it was desirable to be out of the city. 
Her visits came to be looked forward to as one of the 
discomforts of the heated term. 

But if the family were not fond of Mrs. Alexander 
they were of Tom, who, in spite of being an over- 
indulged child, was a lovable one, much like his father, 
who was dead. It became the custom in time for the 
boy to spend the whole summer at his Uncle Dabney’s. 
In this way the two children grew up together on terms 
of the greatest intimacy and affection, for a vigorous, 
childish correspondence was kept up between them, and 
Tom was duly informed when a new calf or a litter of 
kittens was added to the family fold. His visits became 
fewer as his years advanced, or rather shorter, for in 
the thin-skinned period of adolescence he threw off the 
yoke of his mother’s nagging and would come only when 
she could not. This year he was abroad. 


Ill 


ARCHER McLAIN 

i 4 *1^ UT, doctor, I can^t inflict myself upon these 
people for an indefinite period of time! It is 
-i— ^ an outrage upon hospitality/' 

‘‘ I don’t see how you can help doing it just at present,” 
remarked Dr. Llewellyn, drily. I won’t be responsible 
for that leg of yours if you use it before I say so — now 
that’s flat ! I am trying to bring you out of this without 
a limp, young man, and I’ll do it, I think, if you will 
follow my directions. But you can’t stir out of this bed 
until I say the word.” 

Dr. Llewellyn had hurried back from his reluctant 
ministrations upon old Mrs. Dunklin in order that he 
might observe developments in this more interesting case. 
He had listened with close attention to Genevieve Dab- 
ney’s account of all that had transpired in his absence, 
for the condition in which the patient would awake from 
his delirium had been a matter of gravest concern to 
him. There had been concussion, and accompanying this 
was always the fear of a pressure on the brain. 

This danger now seemed to have been averted. He 
was confirmed in this belief not only by Jean’s report but 
by his own observation. He had sat for an hour or more 
talking with the patient on a variety of subjects, and 
found his mind absolutely unclouded. Even his re- 
luctance to inflict himself in his helplessness upon 
strangers was evidence of normality, — a reluctance, by 
the way, which did not abate under the doctor’s emphatic 
words. He returned to the subject. 

30 


ARCHER McLAIN 


31 


‘‘ Well, isn^t there a hospital, or hotel, or something 
that I can be taken to ? 

Hotels don’t spring up at every crossroads in the 
country, my boy; and you wouldn’t find a hospital short 
of St. Louis. They are as scarce around these parts as — 
barbers.” 

He grinned. Evidently he had heard the story of 
Jean’s tonsorial efforts in the patient’s behalf. 

McLain laughed — a natural, boyish laugh that did the 
doctor’s professional heart good. 

“ That leaves nothing more to be said, certainly. You 
can not blame me, doctor, for declining the services of 
the giant? I thought I’d better take my chances with a 
French beard — or a Safety. By the way, I suppose my 
portmanteau was lost in the shuffle ? ” 

“ No. Your portmanteau is here. We found one 
marked A. McL., and we identified you as its probable 
owner by a letter in your pocket.” 

'' A letter ? Let me see it,” said the young man, 
quickly. 

I should have said an envelope, for that was all 
there was. We looked to see if we could find somebody 
to communicate with. But the letter was gone, so there 
was no chance to do so.” 

It seemed to Dr. Llewellyn, who was watching him 
closely, that an expression of relief flitted over the 
young man’s face; but it was fleeting if it was there at 
all, and the next question was a natural one under the 
circumstances. 

‘‘My trunk was lost, of course?” 

“No, your trunk is here too. Your check secured 
that, though in a slightly demoralized condition. You 
were booked for Chicago, I believe.” 

“ Yes.” 

He did not say whether the great metropolis was his 
ultimate destination, and Dr. Llewellyn, who had really 
made this observation for the purpose of openings up the 


THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


S2 

subject, reflected with some amusement that as many 
railroad lines led out of Chicago as into it. But he did 
not pursue the subject. It was no part of his business 
to quiz a patient except pathologically. He did take it 
upon himself, however, to offer some advice. 

You carry a good deal of money, young man. Drafts 
are safer. If it had been somebody else than Dr. Dab- 
ney that rifled your pockets you might not have come 
off so well. . . . Oh, yes, it is all right as it is. The 
doctor put it safely away awaiting your order.’^ 

The young man laughed light-heartedly. ‘‘ I don’t see 
but you people have taken fairly good care of my case. 
I wake to find my wounds dressed, my leg in plaster, 
my baggage attended to, my money safely deposited, and 
even the eunuch who comes when I clap my hands. I 
don’t see that Aladdin’s lamp could have done much 
more — up to the present time.” 

Dr. Llewellyn laughed. “ ‘ Eunuch ’ is good.” 

‘‘Well, doesn’t he look it? Yes, I think it was rather 
clever of me to go off for a week’s sleep while you were 
getting things in shape for me. But seriously, doctor, 
I don’t want to make myself more of a burden upon 
these good people than is necessary. If I can’t be moved 
you can get me a nurse, can’t you? I must have a 
nurse.” 

“Yes, you ought to have a nurse. I’ve been out 
looking for one this morning. That is what detained 
me. I think I have secured her now; not just the kind 
you would like, perhaps, white uniform and cap and all 
the city fol-de-rol, but a good capable woman who knows 
her business and will nurse you as your mother would. 
And, by the way, Mr. McLain, you will not need pro- 
fessional nursing very long. Dr. Dabney wishes me to 
ask if there is anybody you would like to have sent for — 
your mother or sister or — no, I hardly think you have a 
wife.” 

The young man did not answer jovially as the doctor 


ARCHER McLAIN S3 

expected, but gravely. '‘No, I have no wife. I never 
had a sister, and my mother is not living.” 

His face was so unsmiling that the doctor felt con- 
strained to apologize, he hardly knew for what, unless 
it were a reference to a bereavement that he could by 
no means know about. 

"Your father, perhaps?” 

" My father died when I was a child.” 

" And there is no one else that you would wish to have 
notified ? ” 

"No. I think not. I shall want to communicate with 
my attorney later, but if my money is safe there is no 
need to do that at present. I can attend to it when I 
am up.” 

" But you will bring action against the railroad, won’t 
you?” 

" Possibly. But there will be time enough for that.” 
Then as if dismissing the subject he said brightly, 
" Doctor, I wish you would tell me something about the 
good Samaritans that have taken me in. Who are 
they ? ” 

" The salt of the earth,” answered Dr. Llewellyn, 
promptly. " You might go the length and breadth of this 
land and fail to run across a finer man and truer gentle- 
man than Dr. Dabney.” 

" He is a minister, his daughter tells me.” 

" Yes. A country parson. He has married these 
people, baptized their children, and buried their dead for 
forty years. He is deep-rooted as an oak. His church 
is devoted to him beyond anything I have ever seen 
elsewhere. People who have moved away send for him 
from neighbouring counties to marry them because he 
married their mothers or buried their fathers. He is 
bound to this neighbourhood by a hundred cords of that 
kind. I don’t suppose the thought of a change of min- 
isters has ever entered their heads since he preached his 
installation sermon.” 


34 


THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


“His parish must be different from most modern 
ones.” 

“Well, it is. This is a secluded, conservative neigh- 
bourhood where people go on as their fathers did and 
don’t care much for change or new-fangled things. They 
keep the same preacher and the same doctor and the 
same wives as long as they live. 

“ You see, they are somewhat aside from the lines 
of travel — a, little off the beaten track, as you may 
say, but they don’t mind that — in fact, they don’t know 
it. But they are good people, Mr. McLain; they are 
good people — a God-fearing, self-respecting, honest, in- 
dustrious farming community — that’s what they are. . . . 
No, I am not exactly one of them now, but I class 
myself with them because this was my early home and 
I have never got away from my affection for it. I can 
see its limitations, of course, but I love it. No, sir, I 
live in the town of Putney — some distance away — but 
near enough for me to have considerable practice down 
in the old neighbourhood. You see, my father doctored 
their fathers, and they stick by the name.” 

“ If you do as well by them as you have done by me 
I can’t blame them.” 

The doctor bowed his acknowledgments, with a wave 
of his hand, and then returned to the more interesting 
subject of the Dabneys. 

“Yes, sir, the old doctor is as fine a specimen of a 
Christian gentleman as I have ever come across. If he 
has ever swerved from the path of rectitude in the 
course of a long life I’ve never heard of it. The tradi- 
tion is that he was never tempted — but then you can’t 
diagnose a man’s temptations! It certainly is his meat 
and drink to do the Lord’s will and serve his fellow- 
men. And, by the way, he considers it a privilege to 
be able to serve you in this emergency. So just dismiss 
from your mind all fear that you are intruding. He 
knows that you are likely to be here some time, and he 


ARCHER McLAIN 


35 


bids me assure you that his home is as open to you as 
your own father’s would be.” 

'' That’s very kind of him. I certainly appreciate 
it.” 

He means every word of it. And whatever the 
doctor proposes, Miss Lavinia, his sister and house- 
keeper, disposes.” 

“ Miss Lavinia ? Is she the little lady who was so 
afraid of me?” 

“Yes.” The doctor chuckled again. He had heard 
a humorous account of this, too, from Jean. “ Miss 
Lavinia is a good little soul — horizon a trifle restricted, 
but clear vision so far as pickles and plum puddings go — 
and some people think that is as far as a woman needs 
to see. I have wondered sometimes that Miss Lavinia 
doesn’t absorb something from Dr. Dabney and Jean, 
but, by Jove! I believe the kind of women that are 
housekeepers and nothing but housekeepers are supplied 
by nature with a kind of moral oil that keeps their 
plumage glossy and makes every outside interest slip 
off their backs. Well, — Miss Lavinia is a housekeeper 
— but good as gold so far as she goes.” 

“ Isn’t there a Mrs. Dabney? ” 

“ No. She died years ago when Jean was an infant. 
The doctor has never married again.” 

“ ‘ Jean,’ as you call her, is the young lady I saw in 
here ? ” 

“Yes. Dr. Dabney’s only child.” 

“ It doesn’t strike me that her horizon would be spe- 
cially restricted.” 

“ Not Jean’s ! She is her father’s own child, and her 
mother’s too. Her mother was one of the St. Louis 
Charltons, and a mighty fine woman. Her family felt 
that she was throwing herself away on an obscure 
country minister, but she was not. The Dabneys were 
of as good blood as the Charltons. Better, perhaps, for 
they go back to the Huguenot D’Aubignes. It was money 


36 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


they lacked, but that is a fatal lack in the eyes of some 
people. It changes the complexion of blood. The 
Charltons couldn’t see anything blue in the Dabney blood 
except the colour of the doctor’s Presbyterianism and his 
ultramarine prospects.” 

“ And still she married him ? ” 

Oh, yes, she married him. You see, her blood had 
some rather spirited red in it as well as blue. And I 
imagine it would have turned out all right if she had 
lived. Since her death naturally the relation between 
Jean and her father has been very close. She has had 
him for a companion all her life. He has implanted his 
ideas in her mind and nurtured them. He has directed 
her reading and her thinking; he has always made a 
practice of talking with her about the books she reads; 
and he has interested her in the great things of life that 
he himself is interested in — and the result is that her 
horizon isn’t bounded by pickles and plum puddings — 
not by a long shot ! The doctor has been very unselfish 
about her too. He has given her excellent school oppor- 
tunities and she has been quick to take advantage of 
them. But she hasn’t lost her head. The old neigh- 
bourhood holds her just as it did before she went away. 
She knows the worth of these people, and her father has 
taught her that it is worth that counts. But I am tiring 
you, Mr. McLain?” 

Not at all, doctor — not at all. I find all this very 
interesting. If I am to be the enforced guest of these 
good people I am glad to know something of my enter- 
tainers. What you tell me stimulates my desire for 
more. Is this all the family ? ” 

“ All except Aunt Phyllis, whose cooking you will 
become acquainted with by degrees, and Uncle Ephraim, 
her husband, both of them former slaves who have never 
left the place, and never will, and ‘ little Ephraim,’ your 
friend the barber, and his wife and children. By the 
way, you might have fared badly if it hadn’t been for the 


ARCHER McLAIN 37 

barber during your long sleep. He was our right hand 
man.” 

“ I have been wondering how you managed with me.” 

“ Oh, we got along, little Ephraim and I together, 
with the doctor and Jean thrown in for good count, 
though Jean was so busy with the other ' ward ’ — the 
women and children, you understand — that she couldn’t 
do much but sit by you occasionally when the rest of 
us were at our meals and Ephraim was on duty some- 
where else.” 

The young man looked up quickly. 

'‘Did I talk much?” 

"Not much. Some.” 

" What did I talk about ? ” 

" Oh, nothing much that I could discover. A name 
now and then or a muttered sentence. It is in stories 
that secrets are given away in delirium, and mighty 
cheap stories at that, generally. Now if you had been 
a man in a story you would have divulged all your dark 
past, or else have given such a connected account of 
yourself in your ravings that we could have had all 
your adoring friends here to witness the awakening.” 

The patient smiled feebly. " Have you been here 
much of the time ? ” 

"Yes; almost all of it. Fortunately, there isn’t much 
sickness just now. It’s between hay and grass. Pneu- 
monia season is over and summer complaint hasn’t come 
on. It was a convenient time for me to be away from 
home, and I rather took an interest in that head of 
yours.” 

" It was very good of you, certainly. I am afraid I 
am not worth all this trouble.” 

" You look as if you ought to be to somebody. In 
fact, when I saw you lying there by the roadside with a 
gash in your forehead and a broken leg, I picked you 
out as one that it would be worth while to put some 
time on. You were pretty near the better land, young 


88 


THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


man, when we got to you. A little letting alone and 
you would have been there. I said to Dr. Dabney, 
* Doctor, it is concussion — ^probably. If it is, it will be 
a chance. Anyway, with this leg it will be a long pull, 
and it will be at your house.’ The old doctor looked 
at you as you lay there, and said solemnly, ' We’ll try 
it, William. The world can’t spare young men like this.* 
And the next thing, my boy, you were on a shutter and 
little Ephraim and another negro were carrying you 
across the field.” 

The young man gave a stifled groan, which Dr. 
Llewellyn interpreted to mean concern about the result. 

“ Of course I didn’t care about your leg, — that was 
simple enough, — but it was the blow on your head that 
I was fearful about. But you are coming out all right! 
You are coming out all right! For which you may 

give thanks to Almighty God, young man, when you 

are able to kneel.” 

If he had really expected gratitude either to himself 
or to a higher Power he was reckoning without his host, 
for to his unbounded astonishment the young man turned 
his face to the wall with a moan that for intensity and 
bitterness he had never heard equalled. 

“I wish to God you had let me die!” 

“ Oh, come ! ” said the doctor, soothingly. A broken 
leg is not as bad as that. She’ll think as much of you 

if you do limp a little. And I’m not going to let you 

limp ! So there ! ” 

But he looked a trifle anxious as he adjusted the 
bandage and slipped his fingers over the young man’s 
pulse. He shook his head. It was too quick — quicker 
than when he had come in. Perhaps he had talked to 
him too long. 


IV 


LIFE AT THE MANSE 

(( T EAN ! ” called Dr. Llewellyn to the girl passing 
I through the hall. Come here ! I want to ask 

J you something.” 

It was the next morning after McLain’s disconcerting 
outburst, and the doctor had stopped in on his way down 
to Goose Creek for the nurse. He had been sitting here 
for an hour or two, for reasons of his own, though 
little Ephraim had given an encouraging account of the 
night. Things moved in a leisurely way down in Tink- 
ling Spring. An enterprising city physician would have 
had time while Dr. Llewellyn had been sitting here to 
whip out his book half a dozen times and write out 
as many prescriptions to be filled at the nearby drug- 
store in which he had stock. 

The girl turned — evidently he and she were good com- 
rades — and in a moment the white doorway framed for 
the sick man another life-sized portrait, this time in blue, 
which brought out the bloom of her cheeks as only blue 
does. She smiled a good-morning to both, and waited. 

“Jean, how do you think Mrs. Debo is going to im- 
press Mr. McLain?” 

“ As a ‘ cur’osity,’ ” declared Miss Dabney, promptly. 
The instant hilarity which followed showed this to be 
a quotation from somebody, apt and unexpected. Even 
Dr. Dabney, entering at this moment, smiled — though he 
raised a restraining hand. 

“ No ridicule, daughter.” 

“This isn’t ridicule, father. It is an honour to be 
quoted. Indeed, Mr. McLain, she is as good as gold, 
and I think you will find her most interesting. Her 
English is a perennial joy.” 

89 


40 


THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


She and Dr. Llewellyn went off again in a gust of 
laughter, and Dr. Dabney’s lips twitched. So infectious 
was their mirth that even the man in the bed smiled 
without knowing at what. 

Dr. Llewellyn was greatly elated over the condition 
in which he found his patient. Every trace of the fever 
— if it were fever — which had produced the singular 
emotional condition of the preceding day was gone. No 
reference was made to it, though Dr. Llewellyn pur- 
posely gave opportunity for this. Apparently McLain 
had forgotten all about it, for he was evidently keenly 
alive this morning and glad to be alive. 

“ What are the peculiarities of Mrs. Debo’s English, 
if I may ask?” He divined that this was the cause of 
their merriment. 

Now, father, you tell. It’s your turn. And then 
you don’t like my answers.” 

Well, let me see,” said the minister, reflectively, 
entering into the spirit of her banter, — it’s originality, 
should you say ? ” 

"‘Too weak, entirely! Next!” 

“ How about its fearlessness ? ” hazarded Dr. Llewel- 
lyn. 

** Better — but hardly up to the mark. Now, I should 
say it’s free and unlimited coinage.” 

Dr. Llewellyn roared. 

“Go to the head, Jean! We can’t improve on that.” 

“You really make me curious to see this lady,” put 
in McLain. “ Is her nursing of the same type as her 
English — original, fearless, and inventive ? I don’t know 
that I shall want to risk a leg to that combination.” 

“ Oh, you needn’t be the least afraid,” encouraged 
Jean. “ Her nursing is as conservative and old-fashioned 
as — Dr. Llewellyn’s practice. I know all about it. She 
nursed me for a year once.” 

“A year! You?” It seemed incredible that this 
radiant creature, diffusing health and vigour, so to speak, 


LIFE AT THE MANSE 


41 


should ever have been under anybody’s care for a year. 
“ Did you have broken bones too ? ” 

No. Only weak ones.” 

“ Genevieve ! ” 

“ Well, father, you know they were. I was much 
more helpless than you are, Mr. McLain. I was un- 
conscious much of the time, but they tell me that for 
months I could not move my body.” 

He looked intensely sympathetic, and involuntarily 
moved his head and shoulders in the joy of partial free- 
dom. 

** Yes,” she went on, composedly, you see, I was only 
four days old when she undertook my case. ...” He 
fell back in a mock swoon. “ Well, father, I only want 
to convince him that there is a cure even for helpless- 
ness. I told him it was only a question of being patient 
and waiting, but he won’t believe me.” 

He opened his eyes then and fixed them boldly upon her. 

“ If this free coinage lady succeeds only half as well 
in my case as she has in yours I shall be more than satis- 
fied.” The admiration in his words and his eyes was so 
open and shameless that she beat a hasty retreat before it. 

“ His head is all right,” Dr. Llewellyn was saying to 
himself; ^‘this is just plain boy and girl ^kidding.’ I 
wonder if he was a little off yesterday, — just for the 
moment. He seems perfectly normal now. Well, if 
there’s anything wrong Mrs. Debo will discover it.” 

When Dr. Llewellyn had gone on his errand and 
Jean was busy with Mrs. Nellis’s packing, Dr. Dabney 
told his guest the story of what Mrs. Debo had been 
to them in that year of Jean’s helplessness. He told 
it with dignity and reserve, but the young man could 
read the pathos of it between the lines. 

“ I don’t know what we should have done without 
her,” the doctor concluded. ‘‘ I think the Lord sent her 
to us, though she thinks He sent us to her, for she was 
greatly in need of a home at the time. She was separated 


THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


from her husband, had a little child to care for, and no 
means. She has been married twice. The first hus- 
band — Sandy’s father — died, but she left the second one. 
He was a worthless fellow — this Debo. She has been 
knocking about from pillar to post ever since.” 

“ And her son ? Can’t he support her ? ” 

“No. Her son is a cripple — a hunchback. It is a 
very sad case. Sandy will never be able to do hard work 
and he is not fitted for anything else. He would not 
go to school because the boys made fun of him.” His 
lips twitched in a half-smile. “ I believe my daughter 
Genevieve pommelled one of her schoolfellows once for 
mimicking his infirmity. Came out ahead too, they tell 
me. The boy was bent over in a jeering caricature and 
she had him at a disadvantage. She never said anything 
to me about it nor I to her. Her Aunt Lavinia laboured 
with her, showing her how unladylike it was to fight, 
and she promised never to do it again — unless the offence 
was repeated! That was as much as she would promise. 
Lavinia let it go at that, I believe. She has always been 
discreet about not pursuing a line of argument too far 
with Genevieve.” And he chuckled softly. 

“ How old is this boy ? ” 

“ I should say about twenty-one or two. He is a few 
years older than Genevieve. She is twenty.” 

The young man’s mind was instantly diverted from 
Sandy. He had thought her older than that, perhaps 
because of her mature self-possession. When Dr. Dab- 
ney was gone he fell to imagining the details of that 
conflict so lightly sketched in, smiling to think of her as 
an avenger. It would seem that the boy hardly needed 
a pommelling after the sheet lightning of her wrath had 
been turned upon him. 

As busy as Jean was with speeding the parting guests 
she yet found time to usher Mrs. Debo and the doctor 
into the sick room when they came, for she was full of 
mischievous curiosity to witness the meeting. 


LIFE AT THE MANSE 


43 


McLain, raising his eyes to the doorway which he had 
come to think of as a picture frame, saw following her 
a phenomenally tall, angular woman of middle age, who 
advanced with the softened tread of a grenadier. He 
would have retreated before it if he could. This was as 
unprepossessing a ministering angel as ever rustled a 
wing. 

She was clothed in brown checked gingham with a 
long clean apron of light percale. Mrs. Debo kept the 
Sabbath holy by putting on a white one. There was 
about her as she stood there none of the soft curves 
of womanhood, — it seemed impossible that there could 
ever have been, — she had rather the form of a man; 
and her tanned, weather-beaten skin, her large mouth 
with its habit of compression, and her scanty hair drawn 
back from her face and done up apparently with the 
aid of a monkey wrench, gave colour to the idea that this 
was a man masquerading in female attire. Upon Mrs. 
Debo’s head had fallen the frosts of many cold and bitter 
nights, but its original covering had been of that non- 
descript hue known as ‘‘ sandy,” which does not lend 
itself readily to this softening of time. To McLain, re- 
garding her from the helplessness of a plaster cast and 
the prospect of an enforced companionship, she was 
appalling. 

But when she took his hand in her strong, capable 
one and her grim mouth relaxed in a smile he felt 
intuitively that here was one upon whom he could de- 
pend, — an impression he never found it necessary to 
revise. 

“ I ain’t a city nurse, Mr. McLain,” she was telling 
him somewhat superfluously, “ but it won’t be any in- 
detiment to your case to trust it to me. I’ve took care 
of broken legs before this, as Dr. Llewellyn can tell 
you. Of course they wan’t as important ones as yourn, 
but I reckon the feet was hitched on about the same way. 
Jean, straighten that there counterpane. It bumbles.” 


44 


THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


The girl obeyed, raising impassive eyes to McLain’s, 
which she knew would be ready for her. His were as 
expressionless, but still there was established between 
them the free-masonry of humour. 

Mrs. Debo was ready to inspect the injured member. 

Jean, where is yo’ little baby pillow ? ” 

“ Upstairs in the garret.” 

Get it.” 

When the girl returned, bearing in her hands an in- 
fant’s pillow marked “ BABY,” Mrs. Debo was in pos- 
session of all the facts in the case and was making her 
prognostications. She had put the physician through a 
rapid fire of questions that convinced McLain of her 
ability. 

Well, I declare ! ” she said, holding up to view the 
tiny pillow, and looking at it affectionately. “ Don’t it 
look natural! Jean, I can jes’ see yo’ curly head now 
on this pillow ! And yo’ little ear — for all the world like 
a crumpled rose leaf I ” Then, turning to the patient, 

I riz that girl, Mr. McLain — up to a yearlin’.” 

“ So I’ve heard. Good job! I’m expecting you to do 
as well by me.” 

“ Well — I taken her in time. I don’t know about you. 
Some chickens is spoilt in the hatchin’. . . . Now I’ll 
stuff this right under yo’ ankle. It’s soft-like and ” 

“ Oh, don’t ! ” he said. With the thought of the 
curly head and the rose leaf ear in his mind it seemed 
profanation. 

‘'Of course I will ! There never was a Dabney pillow 
— big or little — that wasn’t at the service of an achin’ 
bone. Ain’t that so, Jean?” 

“ I guess I’ll let him have it.” 

“ Of course you will ! There ! don’t that feel better ? 
We all have to be babies some time and a good many 
of us git to our second helplessness right soon.” 

Later in the day she said to him, the feeling strong 
within her that he felt a distrust of a country nurse: 


LIFE AT THE MANSE 


45 


** Now, Mr. McLain, don’t you feel afraid to trust 
me because I ain’t got on a uniform. I reckon brown 
gingham is as good as blue when it comes right down 
to it, and I kin do everything for you that a nurse in 
good and reg’lar standin’ could do exceptin’ one thing. 
That’s the readin’. Ef you was sicker I’d feel shorer 
of suitin’ you. It’s a great help to a nurse sometimes 
to have a patient out of his head. As it is, you’ll soon 
have to be entertained, and I ain’t much on the enter- 
tain. Dr. Llewellyn says you mustn’t use yo’ eyes till 
yo’ head is well, and I reckon the readin’ will have to 
be turnt over to Jean. I’m powerful sorry but I don’t 
see no other chansl.” 

In his joy at this necessity McLain hardly heard her 
apologies. 

I kin stumble through a chapter of the Bible (unless 
it’s the begats or about them old Hit-tights and Jab-a- 
sights, and them I skip — right or wrong. Yes, sir, I do! 
— church member as I am. I don’t see no good tryin’ 
to find out who fit that long ago, nor how they fit, nor 
what they fit about.) . . . No, as I say, ’most any- 
thing else I kin stumble through, but I don’t know that 
it would be edificacious to a soft-spoken man like you 
to hear me. You see,” she explained, regretfully, I 
have to spell out so many of the words that it kinder 
breaks the monotony. And that ain’t pleasant. I reckon 
Jean’s the best chanst.” 

McLain signified that the proposed arrangement would 
be entirely satisfactory to him if it was to Miss Dabney. 

“ Oh, she’ll do it. Jean’s a mighty self-sacrificing girl ; 
and there ain’t anything too hard for her to do for me. 
I’ll help her about gittin’ them people off ef you don’t 
need me right now.” 

“ What is that ? ” asked McLain the next morning, 
looking up from the breakfast she had brought him. 
The house seemed preternaturally still after the exodus 
of the noisy Gilmores. Mrs. Debo was bringing the 


46 


THE MASTER OF ‘‘ THE OAKS ” 


lilacs back from the hall into the freshly aired room. 
“ It sounds like somebody singing.” 

“ I reckon yo’ hearing wasn’t hurt by that lick on yo’ 
head. That’s what it is. Jean Dabney singin’.” 

“ Why, she has a voice like a bird ! ” 

“ And yo’ jedgment don’t seem to be knocked out 
either. For that’s what she has. She opens her mouth 
and music bubbles out the same way it does with a wren. 
I’ve always said if there was anything could take a body 
out of theyselves and up to the gates of glory quicker 
than Jean Dabney’s singin’ I didn’t know what it was 
unless it was her father’s prayers. Ever hear the old 
gentleman pray ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Well, when you do you’ll see that he is on mighty 
good terms with God, and ef there’s anything you want 
you will soon feel like the rest of us — that he’s the 
man to ask fur it.” She listened a moment at the door. 

He’s readin’ now. He’ll pray in a minute.” 

“ What are they singing and praying for ? ” 

Family prayers,” she said with an air of superiority 
which one might assume toward the heathen. 

‘‘ But I haven’t heard any singing before.” 

** No. You couldn’t expect Jean to let out that voice 
of hern with all these sick folks in the house and you 
liable to be waked up any time out of yo’ head. But I 
lay they’ve been havin’ prayers over you ef they ain’t 
been singin’!” She lifted one finger to enjoin silence. 

Still readin’. Must be a long chapter.” 

"‘Would you like to go down?” asked McLain, with 
the instinctive consideration that was a part of the man. 

“ Well, I would — really, if you can spare me. I don’t 
often git a chanst to hear the Gospel dispensed with at 
church, bein’ a nurse, and I do like to meet up with 
family prayers occasionally — which I must say that I 
don’t often do it, for they are just about as scarce as 
hens’ teeth these days.” 


LIFE AT THE MANSE 


4Y 


“ Go on, then. Leave the door open, please.'' 

He listened when she was gone for the girl's voice, 
but it was not heard again. The hymn she had sung 
was an old-fashioned one, — a favourite of his mother's, 
he remembered with a dull aching of his heart. 

He found himself listening for the voice night and 
morning after this. Mrs. Debo always left the door 
open when she went down. They were old familiar 
hymns which fell on his ear like the echo of something 
he had heard long ago but had almost forgotten in the 
stress of passing years. 

They took him back to the time when he used to walk 
to church beside a black-robed figure, clinging to her 
hand and sitting beside her in the dim, shadowy recesses, 
looking into her face sometimes and wondering what 
made her cry ; sometimes putting up his lips to be kissed 
under the black veil with the desire to comfort her; 
whispering to her softly while the preacher talked, I 
want to come c’ose to you!" (she told him afterwards 
of this) ; and often in the dimness and quiet of it all 
drowsing against her shoulder or yielding to the soft 
guidance of her hand that drew him down where with his 
curly head on the friendly pillow of her muff he went off 
blissfully to slumberland, there to lie until another hymn 
such as came to him now from below stairs roused him 
and he walked beside her again, — this time home. 

It had been a long, long time since it had all come to 
him with such distinctness, and eagerly as he listened for 
the voice it was almost as much of a pain as a pleasure 
when it came, with all the memories it brought. 

Possibly Mrs. Debo told somebody about his wishing 
to have the door left open, for one day when the doctor 
had pronounced him on the highroad to recovery — need- 
ing only time, but considerable of that — Dr. Dabney went 
up to his room, and after chatting a few minutes said: 

** Mr. McLain, it is our custom to have family worship 
night and morning, as you may have observed from the 


48 


THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


singing, and to me ' family ’ includes always the stranger 
that is within the gates. Would it be distasteful to you 
if we should come to your room for this during your 
convalescence, since you cannot come to us ? ” 

Not at all, doctor,” the young man answered, heart- 
ily, his eyes resting at that moment on Jean’s rosy face 
half buried in a mass of lilacs she was bringing in. “ On 
the contrary, I should esteem it a privilege to be admitted 
thus to your family circle.” 

He spoke so cordially as to leave no doubt of his sin- 
cerity, though when the good doctor was gone he looked 
at Jean with an ingenuous smile that made her bury her 
hot cheeks in the lilacs again. 

When the result of this overture was reported later 
to Miss Lavinia, she said impressively and with some 
emotion, Brother, we may be very sure of one thing — 
that young man is not far from the Kingdom! I was 
reading to him from the Bible yesterday while Mrs. 
Debo was taking a little rest and when I was called 
away — I put a photograph of Jean’s in to mark the 
place — he asked me to hand him the Bible and he would 
finish it himself. Think of that! A young man calling 
for the Holy Scriptures in these days ! ” 

It was in this way that Mr. Archer McLain’s sick room 
became the centre of the family devotional life of the 
Dabneys, somewhat to his amusement and very much 
to his gratification. After the first surprise of it all, 
McLain found himself taking a distinct pleasure in this 
archaic service. His father, whom he scarcely remem- 
bered, except as recollection had been reinforced by 
tradition, had been a godly man of the old school, like 
Dr. Dabney, and a minister; and though McLain had 
got far enough away from such things since, he could 
dimly recall this very custom in his own home. Its 
revival now in this singular way after the lapse of years 
seemed to bring his innocent childhood close to him. It 
touched him that they should wish to include him in 


LIFE AT THE MANSE 


49 


what he distinctly perceived was for them the vital part 
of life. He could not question the genuineness of the 
faith with which they listened to the reading of the 
Scriptures, which was to them the ultimate authority 
on all the questions that life asks. While he might not 
be able to embrace it, such a faith, held so unostenta- 
tiously, was to the man cast into its midst one that at 
least compelled respect. 

But it must be admitted that while McLain had in 
time all these feelings in regard to the devotional oppor- 
tunities brought thus to his very feet, his first cordial 
acquiescence in the plan came from altogether another 
motive, as has been hinted. With Mrs. Debo’s installa- 
tion as nurse he had seen less and less of Jean Dabney, 
and this opportunity to be near her night and morning, 
to watch her with half-shut eyes from his reclining chair, 
to listen to her flute-like voice so close to him that he 
could see the pulsing of her white throat, was enough to 
stir the devotional spirit of most young men of twenty- 
five. He came to look forward to it hungrily. 

They always sang; Jean leading in a clear soprano. 
Miss Lavinia adding a quavering alto, and Dr. Dabney 
a fair bass. One morning McLain found himself softly 
humming a tenor, hearing which Jean without a break 
in the music drew her little rocker to the side of his 
invalid’s chair, and sharing her hymn book with him, 
gave an invitation by means of uplifted brows. He 
accepted as silently, and the two voices rose and blended 
in a rapturous harmony of sound that somehow left 
them not the same to one another they had been. After 
that she always sat beside him and when she knelt 
was so close to him that he wanted sometimes to put out 
his hand upon the bowed head with its masses of red- 
brown hair. 

It must be acknowledged that he thought more about 
the head than the prayer. 


V 


THE MONEY GOD 

I F quick-knitting bone and rapidly healing flesh were 
the test of pure blood, as Dr. Llewellyn had inti- 
mated, McLain’s was certainly proving up to the 
mark. Nothing could be more satisfactory than his 
swift and steady progress. Mrs. Debo’s prophecy that 
she would have him ready for an invalid’s chair before 
the chair could be brought from St. Louis was literally 
verified. 

It came at last, however, and, clean-shaven and clothed 
in a dressing gown startlingly luxurious for Tinkling 
Spring, which was more accustomed to take its ease in 
a well-settled coat, or without it, than in a dressing 
gown; with the disfiguring bandage cast aside and an 
afghan thrown over his plaster leg, Mr. Archer McLain 
as he lay back in the aforesaid chair might really be 
said to adorn it. He was a most interesting looking 
invalid, and it is not surprising that Genevieve Dabney 
should have been moved to take up without much urging 
the self-denying role assigned her of First Reader. 

She was, indeed, aside from her capacity for self- ' 
sacrifice upon which Mrs. Debo had laid some stress, 
well fitted for the task — nature having endowed her with 
a flexible and sympathetic voice, to which her father had 
added a cultivated taste. Her power of entering into 
an author’s meaning and conveying it in all that was 
in the lines and between the lines was the gift of the 
gods. 

Mrs. Debo soon discovered that her office of nurse, 
beyond the morning and evening hours, was a sinecure, 
60 


THE MONEY GOD 


61 


and Archer McLain found himself looking forward 
eagerly to the time for the day’s reading to begin. It 
was such fun to watch the play of emotion on the girl’s 
face. She entered so intensely into what she read. In 
the days when they were groping for each other’s tastes 
they contented themselves with the magazines, and while 
not much given to stories himself his tastes in that 
direction seemed suddenly to have taken a new impetus ; 
for stories afforded so much more opportunity for the * 
revealing of herself to him than did the muckraking 
articles and tariff diatribes and kindred weighty subjects 
with which she tried at first to appeal to his masculine 
likings. 

It seemed suddenly to have become more important 
to know what she thought of a thing than what the 
writer thought; her attitude toward life and its actors, 
their successes and failures, their follies and foibles, 
their shortcomings and overcomings was now of supreme 
moment to him. Her views were not difficult to obtain, 
for Dr. Dabney had trained his daughter to discuss with 
him everything she read. As a consequence she had a 
quick grasp of a subject and a mature way of looking 
at things that both surprised and interested him. 

On the other hand, a masculine point of view which 
was neither elderly nor ministerial had its own novel 
attraction for her. 

The reading of an article on the Passion Play acci- 
dentally brought his world into range. 

That writer is unjust,” he said when she had finished. 

What he says may be true, but how can you prevent a 
spirit of commercialism from getting abroad among a 
simple, primitive people away up in the Bavarian Alps 
when a crowd of sixteen thousand descends each week 
upon a community of sixteen hundred? Those visitors 
must be taken care of by somebody; and will you tell 
me how you can house and feed such multitudes without 
entering into commercial operations to do it? I don’t 


52 


THE MASTER OF «THE OAKS” 


believe at all that it has degenerated into a money-making 
concern. I think those peasants are sincere and earnest. 
It seemed so to me when I was there.'^ 

She laid down her book with kindling eyes. 

“ Have you ever been to the Passion Play ? 

Yes.” 

“ Oh, tell me about it ! I have always wanted to hear 
that at first hand.” 

To the country girl who had read much and travelled 
little the Old World, with its treasures of history and 
art and song, was the Promised Land. She had never 
hoped to do more than stand on some Nebo’s height and 
view it from afar; but here was one who could bring 
it to her and lay it at her feet. And he did. When 
that recital was finished Mrs. Debo even, who had not 
spoken a word, heaved a deep sigh and took up her 
neglected knitting. 

“ It’s like readin’ from a picture book without havin’ 
to spell out ary a word ! ” she said. '' Fll go down and 
get you a good lunch for that.” 

McLain laughed and waved her his thanks as she 
went out. 

“ I have always been so wild to go abroad,” said 
Jean. ** Tom — that’s Tom Alexander, my cousin, who 
lives in St. Louis, is in Paris now. He writes me a little 
about the places he visits, but his letters are usually 
taken up with other things. He says the post-cards 
must tell me about the things he sees. Don’t you hate 
post-cards? They never mean anything to you unless 
you’ve seen the places yourself, and of course I never 
have, not having travelled. I would just as soon look 
at the pictures in a geography and read from a copy- 
book. It is fully as satisfying. The truth is ” — she 
went on after a pause, during which McLain lay idly 
watching the colour come and go in her cheeks and 
wondering about Tom — “ I don’t believe Tom is getting 
out of this trip what he ought to get. I think he is a 


THE MONEY GOD 


53 


good deal bored with it all — except Paris. I am sure 
I should see more than he does, for I should be so 
intensely interested.” 

“And isn’t he?” 

“Oh, no! Tom isn’t intensely interested in anything 
in the world. He is not built on the intense plan. He 
is too easy-going. But he is good. Dear old Tom ! ” 

McLain suddenly felt himself to be built on the intense 
plan if Tom was not. He had a most unreasonable and 
fervid desire to punch the head of any cousin, near or 
remote, who could bring such a sweetly reminiscent smile 
to the lips of his reader. 

“ How long does Mr. Alexander remain abroad ? ” 

“ He went to spend a year.” (That was good at any 
rate.) “ But I don’t believe he will stay out the time. 
He says he can’t stand it — being away from his mother, 
I suppose he means. He has been gone about three 
months.” 

“ Is he studying ? ” 

“ Tom? ” She looked amused. “ No, he is not study- 
ing. Tom never studied in his life. He is just there 
for a good time (which he doesn’t seem to be having) 
and because Aunt Josephine thinks a year of travel im- 
parts polish to a young man. Aunt Josephine is great 
on polish.” 

“ You are fond of your aunt, I see.’’ 

“Oh, very! You are a discerning young man, Mr. 
McLain. The truth is I am not so fond of my Aunt 
Josephine as of my Aunt Lavinia; perhaps because the 
former loves little and exacts much, while the latter is 
content to love much and exact nothing at all. Then 
Aunt Josephine nags father, and I can’t stand that. I 
resent it. What right has she to come up here and nag 
my father in his own house?” 

“ I’m afraid I have unwittingly stepped into a hornets’ 
nest. I apologize to the hornets and retire from the 
field.” 


54 


THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


“ You needn't. The hornets are so used to a stirring 
up that they do nothing but buzz now. But some of 
these days they’ll sting ! ” 

He laughed. “That sounds deeply, darkly mysteri- 
ous.” 

“There is no mystery about it. It only means that 
some day I shall defy my Aunt Josephine, and then ” 

“And then ?” 

“ And then I will make her understand that my life 
is my own to do with as I please. She hasn’t learned 
that yet. She thinks because I am a Charlton and she 
is a Charlton she can map out my life to suit herself ; 
and I feel that though mere Dabneys, father and I are 
quite equal to taking care of it ourselves.” 

“ And so you are issuing a declaration of independ- 
ence ? ” 

“ I am going to ! And it will be followed by war 1 
It is no good being a Charlton unless I can live up to 
the fighting blood ! ” 

She looked so pretty with her flashing eyes and her 
flushed cheeks that he was tempted to prolong the occa- 
sion. 

“ Am I to understand that the battle is on now ? ” 

She shook her head. “ No, it can’t begin until 
August.” 

“Why August?” 

“ Well — this is to be a hand-to-hand conflict and Aunt 
Josephine isn’t due until August.” 

“ I see. Since you have introduced the subject would 
you mind telling me what this irrepressible conflict is 
about? The beginning sounds interesting. I suspect a 
romance. The blushing lady of the tale I behold; the 
hero ” 

“ The ' hero ’ ! ” she interrupted, scornfully. “ I won- 
der why it is that when anything bordering upon a 
romance is mentioned the man immediately becomes a 
‘ hero ’ ? In actual fact, this man is about as heroic as 


THE MONEY GOD 


55 


a little tin god. You may call him the man in the case, 
if you like, but not the hero ! 

He was emboldened by her tone of antagonism to 
proceed. 

“And you wouldn’t mind telling me? I should like 
your confidence immensely.” 

“No. I don’t think I mind. I really am troubled 
about this thing and I have nobody to go to. Father 
is too good and Aunt Lavinia too soft-hearted.” 

“And you come to me because I look hard-hearted 
and not very good ? Is that it ? ” 

“ Oh, hush t I come to you because you are near 
enough my own age to understand — just as Tom would 
if he were here. I wish he were, this minute.” 

“ Go on,” he said, settling himself into a listening 
posture. “ I’ll do my best to take Tom’s place — tem- 
porarily. It couldn’t be more than temporarily, could 
it?” 

“ No, indeed. Nobody could ever take Tom’s place 
to me — permanently.” 

’ “ That’s one point settled. Now ” 

“ You see,” she began, knitting her brows in a look 
of real perplexity that appealed to him in spite of his 
light words, “ Aunt Josephine wishes to form for me 
what she calls an ‘ alliance.’ ” 

“ Matrimonial, of course? ” 

“Of course. With a man twice my age — a bachelor 
— who has no end of money.” 

His eyes contracted. That, with a scheming aunt 
thrown in, was a dangerous combination. 

“ He is a man of character ? ” 

“ He is a man of fine family. That counts for a good 
deal with Aunt Josephine, as indeed it would with me. 
He is educated and travelled, has irreproachable man- 
ners, — but I don’t know anything about the other. Aunt 
Josephine says when I ask her about his character that 
of course he is a man of the world — whatever that is. 


56 THE MASTER OF ‘‘THE OAKS” 


I suppose she means that he has been around a good 
deal. You see, he has never done much but have a good 
time, and everybody always laughs and says he certainly 
has done that. No, I don’t really know anything against 
him except that Tom says ” 

“ What does Tom say ? ” 

“ That he would rather see me dead than married to 
him. He wouldn’t tell me why.” 

McLain found himself instantly aligned with Tom. 
A feeling of revolt against Aunt Josephine and this 
worldly marriage she was urging upon the girl — this 
pure-souled, innocent girl — rose within him. He knew 
the type, as did Tom. 

“ And you are trying to make up your mind ? ” 

Her white teeth gleamed. 

“ No, indeed ! As old Uncle Snake-bit Bob used to 
say in ^ Diddie, Dumps, and Tot,’ that classic of my child- 
hood, ‘ My min’, hit’s made up.’ I am trying to make 
up Aunt Josephine’s mind.” 

^^Oh!” 

You see, Mr. McLain, she has set her heart on my 
marrying this man — for his money. It seems a harsh 
thing to say, but it is the naked truth that Aunt Josephine 
loves money better than she loves anything else in this 
world. She is not aware of it, but she does. She talks 
money. She thinks money. She has no means of weigh- 
ing people except with gold — no way of estimating them 
except in dollars and cents. You’ve seen that kind of 
people, haven’t you ? ” 

He nodded. 

“ Well, I never had until I spent my first winter with 
Aunt Josephine. I suppose I had always unconsciously 
used father’s standards. I used to sit and listen to the 
talk between her and her friends. It was all about rich 
people. It seemed that nobody else counted, no matter 
what they were or what they had done. It was not 
as if such persons were disliked. They were simply 


THE MONEY GOD 


57 


ignored. For Aunt Josephine — and her kind — people of 
the middle class do not exist. The wealthy they adore; 
the indigent hey patronize and assist; but the self-re- 
specting, cultivated man of small income is for them 
as if he had not been born. And the amazing part of 
it all to me was that the innate vulgarity of all this never 
seemed to have occurred to them. It was positively 
funny! Well, this is my Aunt Josephine, and she has 
set her heart on my marrying money and becoming one 
of this inner circle! . . . No, of course it is none of 
her affair, but she likes to manage people, and she will 
die hard. She worries my life out of me about this 
man.’’ 

Where did you meet him ? ” 

“ In St. Louis, last winter. It is all Aunt Josephine’s 
doings. Sh6 threw us together constantly. The thing 
was made up between them, in cold blood. She as much 
as told me so afterwards. That’s one thing I hate about 
it. I don’t think these things can be managed by out- 
siders, do you ? ” 

“ I have never had much experience with ‘ these 
things,’ ” he said, seriously, but I should say not — in 
this country.” 

“ Why, of course they can’t ! And then he is so old ! 
Would you want to marry a man twice your age ? ” 

“ Most decidedly not. I shouldn’t want to marry a 
man of any age.” 

She made a grimace. 

“ Oh, you are such a kid ! There is no danger of 
your ever being too old to marry anybody ! I doubt 
if you ever grow up. Now, I want you to be serious 
and help me out. This man is coming up here if I don’t 
head him off. Again! after all that has passed. Aunt 
Josephine writes me he is, and so does he.” 

“You correspond with him, do you?” 

“ Why, no ! of course I don’t. Would I correspond 
with a man I had refused to marry ? ” 


58 


THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


“ You didn’t tell me that.” 

“ You could have guessed it if you had had any pene- 
tration. That’s what a girl almost always does when 
she doesn’t accept. I’ll tell you that much for your 
future guidance.” 

“ No. Sometimes she tells him gently that she will be 
a sister to him — or a friend. Didn’t you do that ? ” 

No, I didn’t. I don’t want to be anything to him.” 
There was where you made your mistake. If you 
had done that he would have been so angry that the 
probabilities are he would have gone away and stayed 
away. See?” A moment later he said seriously, “If 
you really want to be rid of this man why don’t you 
dismiss him peremptorily ? ” 

“You certainly are a helpful counsellor!” she said 
with derision. “That would be a good thing, wouldn’t 
it? But you see the peculiarity of this particular man 
is that he won’t stay dismissed. He doesn’t seem to 
understand the English language — not the smallest word 
of it. After each refusal he bobs up serenely with a 
floral offering in his hand and goes at it again. It is 
the truth! The first thing he did after he went away 
from here the last time — when I thought it was settled 
for good and ever — was to send me a box of American 
Beauties ! I took them out in the backyard and stamped 
on them. Aunt Phyllis thought I was having a fit and 
threw cold water in my face.” 

She stopped to laugh hysterically over this and then 
went on: 

“ He will persist in sending me things, even when I 
beg him not to do it. Father won’t let me send them 
back to him, for he never sends anything but flowers and 
books and such things. But I can’t bear it! It always 
seems to me that with every fresh consignment he is 
saying, ‘ My dear girl, you don’t understand. Money 
can buy anything — even you — if only the payments are 
kept up! ’ Now would you like that? ” 


THE MONEY GOD 


59 


He shook his head. 

You asked about my writing to him. In common 
decency I have to acknowledge these things, which I do 
in the briefest of notes, and that brings a letter from 
him — but I never answer until there comes another relay. 
He has sent me boxes and boxes of chocolates. He has 
an idea that all girls like them — and I hate chocolates 
so that I don’t like anybody that likes them! I give 
them all to little Ephraim’s children. Then when I told 
him I didn’t like candy he took to sending me books. . . . 
Yes, that’s where all these novels come from. You 
might know father didn’t buy them.” 

“ Now, don’t give them to little Ephraim’s children,” 
he pleaded. I am expecting a feast when I get down 
on the porch.” 

She gave a delighted girlish giggle. 

No, I’m saving them to start a neighbourhood library. 
I wrote to him that I could accept them on those terms 
only. You see, a public library is rather an impersonal 
thing and I thought he might as well spend his money 
that way as any other. That lessened the supply a little, 
but he still sends twice as many as I can read. His 
latest trick is to send some theological books to father 
that he has been wanting some time. Books on theology, 
now, if you please! With them came a note saying that 
he hoped to hear father’s opinion of them some time — 
perhaps he might be able to run up a few days this 
summer ! Wasn’t that cool ? Of course father wrote to 
him, thanking him for the books and giving him a cordial 
invitation to come — in the innocence of his dear old 
heart. So Mr. Morris Maltby now has his invitation 
from headquarters. And there you are ! ” 

“ The man is foxy.” 

“ He is ‘ Foxy Grandpa ’ ! ” she said, maliciously. And 
they laughed with the scorn of the twenties for the 
remote forties. 

“ How did he know your father’s tastes ? ” 


60 THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


He was up here a short time ago, as I told you, and 
father was talking with him about these books. Father 
thinks everybody is interested in theology! And I must 
say that Mr. Maltby entered into it and really seemed 
to be.’' 

'' Did your father like him? ” 

Yes — unfortunately — very much. That makes it so 
much harder. He is attractive. I liked him myself at 
first — until — until — oh, well, you know how that always 
spoils everything with a girl.” 

“ I didn’t suppose it did.” 

“ It does, I can tell you ! — when the ‘ reciprocity is all 
on one side,’ as Dr. Llewellyn says.” 

When they were through laughing over this he said 
seriously : 

‘‘Do you really, truly want to get rid of this man?” 

“ I certainly do. There is something about him from 
which I recoil. I can’t tell you what it is. I sometimes 
ask myself the question and never answer it satisfac- 
torily. It is something instinctive. Don’t you believe we 
can trust our instincts?” 

“ Sometimes. Not always.” 

“ I can.” 

“ Perhaps — in this case. Now I will tell you what 
to do.” 

He spoke so quietly and yet with such certainty that 
she found herself resting upon his judgment in advance. 

“ You go to your father and tell him this whole story 
just as you have told it to me — of the man’s importunity, 
your aunt’s insistence, and your feeling of repugnance. 
Then ask him to recall this invitation.” 

“ He wouldn’t do it,” she said, disappointed. “ Why, 
to father an invitation is like a law of the Medes and 
Persians. It altereth not! The canons of hospitality 
are as inviolable to him as the Moral Law. He wouldn’t 
recall it if the man were proved a — criminal.” 

The lines of his mouth hardened, 


THE MONEY GOD 61 

Then tell him what Tom said to you and ask him to 
write to Tom and find out what he meant.’^ 

“ Tom wouldn’t tell him. He wouldn’t even tell 
me. 

'' He might tell your father even if he didn’t tell you ; 
and if he is the man I take him for — from that remark — 
I believe he would do it.” 

I don’t think it,” she said, “ I don’t believe Tom will 
tell, even if he knows anything, and if he does father 
would be sure to think it was because — well, you see, 
Tom thinks a good deal of me himself. That’s one 
reason he wouldn’t do it.” 

McLain looked at her, half smiling and wagging his 
head from side to side. 

“You’ll give in! All they will have to do is to keep 
it up. You’ll look at him differently after a while.” 

“ I will not 1 ” she cried, indignantly. “ Why, the man 
is weak, with all his persistency. Do you suppose I 
would ever marry anybody but a strong man ? ” 

“ Say ! you’d better marry a woman. All men are 
weak — more or less — didn’t you know that ? ” 

“ No, they are not, either. Father isn’t weak. Dr. 
Llewellyn isn’t weak. Do you know,” she said with a 
burst of enthusiasm, “ I think a strong man is the most 
glorious thing in the world — ^because of his opportunities 
— and because he has temptations and resists them.” 

“ Oh, he does I ” There was a mocking light in his 
eyes. “ You know men right down to the ground, don’t 
you ! ” 

“ I know father,” she insisted. 

“ Your father is a king of his kind. I’ll admit that.” 

“And Dr. Llewellyn?” 

“ Another scion of royalty. I’ll never go back on my 
doctor.” 

“And Tom?” 

“Now I decline to accept your unsupported statement 
that Tom too is a king. I suspect that on this side of 


THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


the Atlantic he would be just an ordinary individual like 
the rest of us.” 

Then as he lay back in his chair looking at her sweet, 
pure face the smile slowly faded from his lips and the 
mocking tone died out of his voice. You are a fortu- 
nate girl,” he said with great gentleness, to have lived 
your life among good men. May you never be thrown, 
closely, with any other kind. And now — since they are 
entirely impersonal — may I see your foreign post-cards ? ” 

“ ril hunt them up when I come back. Fm going 
away this afternoon.” 

‘'Going away!” he echoed, blankly. “Where? For 
how long ? ” 

“Only to Putney. And I shan’t be gone long — ^not 
more than a week or two.” 

“ A week or two ! One could die of loneliness in a 
week,” he grumbled. “ And in two ” 

“ Not with Mrs. Debo around I But I will come back 
just as soon as I can. You see, I have to go at this 
time. Bess Claiborne is to be married, and she was my 
chum at Monticello. I can’t put it off.” 

There was a suggestion of disinclination which con- 
soled him. 

“ And what am I going to do for reading? ” 

“ I’ll leave you some of Mr. Maltby’s books,” she said, 
cheerfully. “ Maybe he will send some American 
Beauties while I am gone. If he does, you may have 
them.” 

“You say that because you know I am in no con- 
dition to get up and stamp on them.” 

He did not let her perceive how dismayed he was 
at the prospect of spending a whole week — perhaps two 
— without her. But when he heard the carriage wheels 
on the drive two hours later and knew she was gone, 
he felt bereft 


yi 


MRS. DEBO DISCOURSES ON MEN 
HE weeks of Jean's absence seemed to the invalid 



never-ending. Despite Mrs. Debo's gift of con- 


A versation, Dr. Dabney's daily visits, and Miss 
Lavinia's morning chapter in the Bible (chosen with 
reference to McLain’s supposed spiritual state), time was 
heavy on his hands. Dr. Llewellyn had interdicted read- 
ing for the present on account of his head, and he must 
needs fall back upon thought; and thought, for some 
unexplainable reason, was not agreeable to him just 
now. Depression fell on him like a pall. 

I don’t know what to make of him,” Mrs. Debo 
confided to Dr. Llewellyn. “ He ain’t doin' near so well 
as he was last week. Why, he was as gaily as a young 
filly then. And he is now sometimes when he rouses 
up. But he is fitty! and he ain’t the kind of man that 
was born fitty. I can’t get at it yet, what's the matter 
with him.” 

“ Don't let him brood. Talk to him — about anything 
— it doesn’t matter much what, so long as it takes him 
out of himself. I don't like the turn things have taken — 
though perhaps it won’t last. I guess it is only that he 
misses Jean. Does he seem anxious to get away?” 

No. Anyway, he don’t say anything about it. But 
he don’t seem to take any interest. I tried to talk to him 
yesterday about Sandy. It 'peared to me that anybody 
in his right senses would take an interest in Sandy — 
but he didn’t seem to.” 

“ How is Sandy ? ” The doctor was ready to attest 
his own sanity. 


63 


64 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


'' He's well — but I’m mightily troubled about him. 
Sandy ought to be doin’ something, doctor. He gets 
to broodin’, and then he gets hard to live with. I’ve 
been thinkin’ of puttin’ him with Zeb Horn to learn 
the shoemaker’s trade.” 

Good idea ! It will do them both good.” 

“ You think it wouldn’t do any harm to Sandy ? There’s 
them that says it would.” 

Stuff and nonsense ! ” said the doctor. “ ' There’s 
them ’ that will say anything. Zeb Horn wouldn’t harm 
a fly.” 

“ It’s more’n a question of flies. I know he’s kind to 
animals. Everybody says that. But I don’t want 
Sandy’s moralities put out o’ j’int even ef his back is.” 

“ Zeb Horn won’t hurt Sandy’s ' moralities.’ You send 
him over there. It will be good for them both.” 

Well — I’ll see. Marthy Freno she always says Zeb 
Horn is a good man.” 

“ She ought to know. He lived there, didn’t he ? ” 

^‘Yes. But they turnt him off, jes’ like the rest. I 
dunno.” 

She had followed the doctor to the door for this con- 
versation, and when she returned to the sick room she 
sat silent some time, pondering the complex subject of 
Sandy’s future while her darning needle went in and out. 

“ Mrs. Debo,” said McLain, abruptly, “ do you know 
Miss Dabney’s cousin, Mr. Alexander?” 

“ Tom Alexander? Well, I reckon I do! I’ve known 
him since he was in short pants.” 

“What sort of a man is he?” He had determined 
now to get it from somebody if he could. 

“ Nice fellow. Nobody has more friends in this neigh- 
bourhood than Tom Alick. Pleasant and good-natured, 
with a kind word for everybody. That’s Tom.” 

“ Is he what you would call a strong man ? ” 

“In his health?” 

“No, in his character.” He asked her because he 


MRS. DEBO DISCOURSES ON MEN 65 


perceived that, unlettered as she v^as, she was a reader 
of character. 

“ Well now, you’ve asked me the one question I’d 
rather not answer. And yet I don’t know why. I don’t 
know anything against Tom Alexander. I never heard 
of his havin’ any bad habits, — and still — I would say 
that kind-hearted as he is, there was a weak streak In 
him that would come out some time and somehow. 
No ... I wouldn’t say he was one of your real strong 
men. I don’t know what Jean could make of him.” 

“ Is there anything between them ? ” 

He felt like a cad for asking her, but he had to know. 

“ Well — he’s been in love with her since they was 
children. Everybody knows that. Sometimes puppy 
love lasts and sometimes it don’t.” 

There was nothing more said, and Mrs. Debo’s 
thoughts quickly reverted to the subject of Sandy and 
his connection with Zeb Horn. McLain on his part was 
equally preoccupied. When at last the nurse spoke, her 
words framed a question that was the natural outgrowth 
of her perplexity, but it was one that broke upon her 
patient’s train of thought with strange and sinister per- 
tinence. 

Mr. McLain, when a man’s done something he can’t 
get away from, like murder or stealin’, do you suppose 
he can ever be trusted ? ” 

What?” 

He turned upon her sharply, but she was intent upon 
her needle and her thoughts and did not see his face. 

“ I was thinkin’ about Zeb Horn, and whether I would 
darst to put my Sandy with him, to learn a trade, you 
know.” 

*‘Who is Zeb Horn?” 

It came to him all at once that he had heard this name 
before and had asked this same question then. Was it 
one of those uncanny flashes of memory that come to us 
sometimes in which everything is so startlingly familiar 


66 THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


that though we know we have never been surrounded 
by these circumstances before, we are made instantly 
aware of all that has been said and will be said ? 

In a moment more he had placed it. He had heard 
Jean call this name once in talking to her father in his 
presence. He had asked curiously at the time, “ Who 
is Zeb Horn? His very name sounds interesting.’’ 
‘‘ One of father’s proteges,” Jean had said, and he had 
turned to the minister expecting a story, for Dr. Dabney 
was as full of stories as of Bible texts. To his surprise 
and somewhat to his discomfiture the minister had an- 
swered with unwonted gravity, A maimed soul, Mr. 
McLain.” Naturally the subject was dropped, but he 
had determined to ask Jean some time what her father 
meant, for there was that in the doctor’s manner which 
stimulated curiosity. It had been forgotten, however, 
until now the name had come strangely to him again. 

'' Who is Zeb Horn ? ” he repeated. 

“ He’s a man in this neighbourhood. I don’t know 
much about him, but ” — she spoke hesitatingly — he 
done something onct — nobody knows what — and he can’t 
get away from it. People don’t have much to do with 
Zeb Horn around here, but Marthy Freno, she always 
says he’s a good man.” 

Where does he live ? ” 

“ Down the road a piece — a right smart piece, when 
it comes to that.” 

“ What does he do ? ” 

He’s a shoemaker. That’s why I’m thinkin’ of let- 
tin’ Sandy go over thar — to learn his trade. It’s a good 
settin’-down trade, and Sandy can’t never do anything 
at hard work. Sandy’s a hunchback, Mr. McLain, and 
a dwarft.” 

He felt a throb of pity at the patient hopelessness of 
her tone that took him out of himself and his own 
troubles. 

Yes. The doctor told me. It is very sad.” 


MRS. DEBO DISCOURSES ON MEN 67 


It’s worse’n sad ! ” she said, sharply. Sandy was 
as straight as any child onct. Did the doctor tell you 
that ? ” 

“ No ; it was Dr. Dabney that spoke to me about it.” 

^‘Oh! Dr. Dabney! Well, — he wouldn’t tell about 
that! Dr. Dabney is hard on sin, but he’s powerful easy 
on the sinner. Now, I ain’t! I say when a man’s done 
anything it ought to be belt ag’in him! ‘The truth’s 
the light, and let her shine ! ’ I’ve been blamed for tellin’ 
the truth about marryin’. But I don’t believe tin crackin’ 
up the married state for what it ain’t. And it ain’t no 
soft snap, lemme tell you, not for a woman that marries 
a widower lookin’ for a housekeeper he don’t have to 
pay wages to! That’s Martin Debo! ... Yes, sir, 
Martin was his first name and ef his last had a-been 
Satan there wouldn’t a-been anybody that would a-dis- 
puted his lawful right to it. Anyway, his family 
wouldn’t. But I didn’t know that when I married him. 
And that’s what I say. You can’t tell. Why, Mr. 
McLain, I was a widow woman onct, and Sandy’s back 
was as straight as anybody’s — ^but then seems like a 
woman never does know when she’s well oflf ! ” 

“ Was he unkind to you? ” 

She shook her head from side to side, but not in 
denial, and closed her eyes. “ Ah-h, Lord!’' 

“ I can stand a good deal for myself,” she went on, 
“ and did, but when Debo hit Sandy one day and — 
hurt him — so his little back growed crooked,” her homely, 
ill-favoured face twitched painfully, “ then I quit. . . . 
No, I ain’t never got a divorce. A divorce ain’t nothin’ 
but a chance to marry again — and I didn’t want that. 
The Lord knows I’d had my gorge o’ marryin’! . . , 
You can’t blame me, Mr. McLain.” 

“No, indeed!” 

“ I knew you’d say that. Your head ain’t cracked — 
not clear through, anyway! Now there’s some folks 
down on Goose Creek says I oughtn’t to a-give it up 


68 THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


so soon; that marryin’ is a kinder chance game and ef 
I’d a-kep’ at it I’d a-drawed something after a while. 
But I says, ‘ No, sir ! ’ ” — She lifted the outspread palm 
of renunciation. — '' ' Not for me ! Not for Drusilla ! 
It’s a chance game all right,’ I says, ‘ but the prizes is 
too skeerce ! ’ 

The trouble is, Mr. McLain,” she continued in the 
impartial manner of one who has thought so much about 
a vital subject that it has become impersonal, “ the 
trouble is that there’s so many kinds of meanness in 
men that ef, by the mercy of the Lord, you miss one 
you are pretty sure to hit another, — and then, whichever 
you have to live with, you think that’s the worst they 
is ! Ain’t that so ? ” 

'' We’re a pretty bad lot,” he agreed. 

^‘You air that — takin’ you by and large! Of course 
I don’t mean you and sech as you — you know that well 
enough. I expect you’re jest as clean and straight a 
young fellow as my Sandy — and there ain’t nothin’ 
crooked about Sandy but his back, ef I do say it as 
shouldn’t! ... Yes, sir, there’s a many kind of mean- 
nesses a woman is liable to meet up with in the man 
she marries that she didn’t suspicion was there tell she 
finds it settin’ right opposite to her.” 

“ I suppose a man is hardly liable to ^ meet up ’ with 
any kind of meanness sitting right opposite to him when 
he marries, is he?” 

“Yes, he is too! Don’t you go to countin’ on that! 
I reckon we’re all made out o’ the same batch o’ dough.” 

McLain laughed, remembering Mrs. Poyser and her 
immortal epigram, “ I’m not sayin’ women ain’t fools. 
God A’mighty made ’em to match the men.” 

But Mrs. Debo’s strictures upon humanity were per- 
sonal observations and by no means at second hand. 

*^Yes, sir, women has meannesses, jes’ the same as 
men, only it does seem like they ain’t quite so he-nious- 
like and variegated.” 


MRS. DEBO DISCOURSES ON MEN 69 

McLain laughed. “You are fond of moralizing, Mrs. 
Debo.” 

“Moralizin’? Is that what you call it? I’m always 
sort of ’fraid when I git to talkin’ about men that I’m 
m-moralizin’.” 

She went on, for she was not to be thrown off from 
her enumeration. “ Now, as I was say in’, there’s whiskey 
meanness (and that heads a whole percession, lemme tell 
you ! ) ; and there’s woman meanness — talk about the 
wisdom of Solomon, and him goin’ around askin’, ' Who 
can find a virtuous woman ? ’ — humph ! . . . and then 
there’s temper meanness, but I reckon there ain’t no 
sex to that kind; and picayune meanness; and crooked 
meanness; — all of ’em is hard on women! And then 
there’s jes’ plain no-’count meanness, that ain’t reely 
meanness at all at first, but amounts to it in the long run. 

“ That’s the kind my first was — Sandy’s father, you 
know. He warn’t a bad man. He was a good man. 
But good for nothin’ on the face of the earth! Jes’ 
egoless! Wouldn’t put on a palin’ till the hogs was in 
the corn, and then — well, of course! Fine lookin’ man 
he was too — six foot tall and large accordin’, and a smile 
that made you forget all the warnin’s folks give you — 
till afterwards. We was walkin’ along the road one day 
before we was married and it come over me all at onct 
how big and strong he was and I says : ^ Sandy, you’re 
jes’ like that there oak — so sturdy like.’ He looked 
mighty pleased, and he says (there was a wild grape- 
vine hangin’ on to that tree) — and he says, ‘Yes, I’m 
the oak,’ he says, ‘ and you’ll be the twiny vine, won’t 
you. Druse ? ’ and he give my hand a little squeeze, and 
my! that sounded awful pretty to me. We felt jes’ like 
we was writin’ poetry ! ” 

She paused a moment, and McLain strangled a smile 
at the conceit of this raw-boned, self-sufficient sister as 
the vine! 

“ And were you ? ” he asked. 


70 THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


“Was I what? — the vine? . . . No! ... I never 
found no time to twine. It kep' me busy holdin’ up the 
oak.’^ 

McLain laughed outright. He found this woman’s 
observations on life and its actors — those that had ap- 
peared on her small stage — vastly amusing. She pos- 
sessed a keen analytic power which owed no debt to 
schools and schoolmasters, but was the product of 
that relentless pedagogue, Experience, who sometimes 
sharpens our wits on his grindstone and sometimes dulls 
them — according to the quality of the wits and the heavi- 
ness of the bearing down. 

Mrs. Debo’s were of a native virility that one occa- 
sionally sees springing from families of stunted, scanty 
intellectuality — sporadic cases, as it were, to the con- 
founding of the believer in heredity and the physicist 
who asserts that a stream cannot rise higher than its 
source — and the sharpening of circumstances had not 
been lacking. She had been burden bearer for three 
families ; for, her mother dying in her youth and leaving 
behind her a family of young children to a father who 
felt apparently that his parental responsibility to his 
offspring ended with their advent into this world, she 
had been forced early to take a woman’s place in the 
strife. The father, soon consoled by a young widow 
who had a larger, softer nest than his own, flitted to it 
without undue delay and joyously began the rearing of 
another brood, leaving last year’s birdlings to fend for 
themselves, Drusilla at their head. 

She did it some way, for she was strong of frame and 
stout of heart, and she kept them together until the boys 
could stand alone and the girls went out when little 
more than children to take up such lives as their mother’s 
had been. The struggle strengthened her, without doubt, 
but it did not tend to soften her judgments of men, — not 
even of Sandy Lachlan, the good-natured, blond-haired 
giant whom she married when she was free at last to 


MRS. DEBO DISCOURSES ON MEN 71 


choose a life for herself, believing thankfully that here 
at last was one strong enough for her to lean upon. 

Sandy was strong physically, but “ sappy,” as she had 
to admit to herself before a disappointed honeymoon was 
over. Undoubtedly she would have strengthened Sandy’s 
spiritual backbone by the vigorous treatments she found 
time to give it, but before his case had been much more 
than definitely diagnosed and the necessity for treatment 
decided upon, he came to an untimely end from a run- 
away team, leaving his widow with an infant Sandy in 
her arms — and nothing else. 

If she had been content with this experiment it would 
have been better for her and Sandy too, poor boy, but 
Drusilla, who had no fear of work when she had her 
two strong arms to do it with, found it was another story 
to keep herself afloat with one, the other being engaged 
in holding up a baby. So when Martin Debo offered 
to take her and the little Sandy to his home and care 
for them she yielded to the temptation and went — with- 
out much love (which might have helped her over the 
hard places) but rather with the hope of getting Sandy 
well placed. She had taken the pains to ascertain that 
Martin Debo would be likely to make her a living, being 
full of snap,” which had been poor Sandy Lachlan’s 
greatest lack. 

But as Mrs. Debo said, there’s a many kind of mean- 
nesses,” and it was not long before she found that Mr. 
Debo was possessed of several varieties — among them 
a violent temper and a periodical surrender to strong 
drink. It is a bad combination for domestic happiness, 
and Mrs. Debo bore much. But one day Debo, in a 
drunken rage, struck the child a blow that — well, a child’s 
back is a tender thing, and Dr. Llewellyn called the 
trouble that developed shortly, “ curvature of the spine,” 
saying that it might have come from any one of several 
causes. Mrs. Debo was not deceived. She knew what 
it had come from. At night when her husband came 


72 


THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


in from his work her household goods were packed and 
she stood before him, white-faced and hard, telling him 
what the doctor had said, and adding as her final word, 
ril quit now — ^before there’s another child in the house 
for you to cripple.” 

She had done a little of everything since, drifting 
finally into nursing, in which occupation her powerful 
frame, her good judgment, and her big heart made her 
valuable in a community that knew not the trained nurse. 
Her experience from house to house added greatly to 
her knowledge of human nature. 

This was the story, briefly and consecutively sketched, 
that McLain was gathering scrap by scrap from her dis- 
cursive talk. 

“ You’ve had a hard life, Mrs. Debo.” 

“ Yes,” she said, reflectively ; “ I reckon mine’s been 
a little harder than some; but let me tell you this, Mr. 
McLain — when you get right down to it, and dost 
enough to see, they are all hard! Maybe not to-day — but 
yesterday — or to-morrow.” 

On his face there was an impenetrable look which she 
took for dissent. 

It don’t seem so, I know, and young folks like you 
that has theirs all to come, never thinks it is so. I’ve 
been places where I’d say when I first got there, " Here’s 
one place where nothin’ rubs. . . .’ But you wait! 
Let me stay long enough, and there’s the galled spot, 
and the harness bearin’ down on it. It comes to us all — 
and it has a hundred different ways of cornin’.” 

“ I suspect you are right,” he said, more to himself 
than to her. 

“ ‘ Thy fate is the common fate of all.’ ” 

“ I don’t remember whether it was Paul or Solomon 
said that,” she remarked, "‘but it is true enough to be 
preached on a heap oftener than what it is. That’s why 


MRS. DEBO DISCOURSES ON MEN 73 


I don’t put in much time studyin’ over my hard times. 
There’s always somebody else’s to look at. When I 
git downhearted I jes’ think of Sandy and then say to 
myself, "You — with your strong, straight back! you — 
a-complainin’ ! ’ . . . Well, that always fetches me up 
standin’ ! . . . But, Mr. McLain, it’s harder for me 
to stand it for Sandy than it is for myself. Sandy ain’t 
ever had a fair chanct. It wasn’t his fault.” 

Maybe it is easier for him to bear than if it had been 
his fault,” he said, enigmatically. 

She did not stop to discuss this point. 

“ You see,” — her homely face transfigured by the 
mother love shining from it — Sandy don’t have no 
pleasures. He can’t have. I’ve set here and listened to 
you and Jean Dabney readin’ together and enjoyin’ it 
so, and it jes’ made my heart ache to think that Sandy 
never could have even that.” 

“ Why can’t he ? That is a pleasure that is open 
to all.” 

“ Mr. McLain, Sandy can’t read — enough to reely 
sense a thing. He wouldn’t go to school because the 
children made fun of him. And now he is too old to 
learn.” 

'^Nonsense! Nobody is too old that wants to learn. 
Send him to me for two hours every day. I’ll teach 
him. . . . Could I? Why, of course I could. I’ve 
seen men learn to read that were older than Sandy when 
they began.” 

“You have! Where?” She did not notice, in her 
eagerness of acceptance, that her question was unan- 
swered. 

She was so profuse in her thanks that he said at last, 
“That’s all right. Go on with your story. Did Debo 
ever marry again?” 

“No! Couldn’t. You see, I left it that-a-way, not 
gettin’ a divorce.” Her mouth twitched. The good 
luck coming to Sandy lightened her spirits. “ Dr. Dab- 


74 


THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


ney says everybody ought to do all they can for their O'wn 
kind, and I didn’t know anything better I could do for 
the female sect than to keep Debo from marryin’ into 
it again.” 

He threw back his head with a laugh that it did her 
good to hear. 

“Maybe you think I’m hard on men, Mr. McLain?” 

“ Not harder than we deserve, I’m afraid.” 

“ No. I’ve had experience, and it’s made me look at 
it some sharper than most, I reckon. The Bible says, 
‘ Mark the perfect man.’ Well, you don’t need to mark 
him. He’s done marked himself, the perfect man has! 
He won’t get lost in a crowd, for there won’t be but 
one where he’s goin’l . . . No, sir! Men, take ’em 
by the load, and leavin’ out present company, is pretty 
much like apples. There's very few of 'em that ain't 
specked! . . . Once in a while you’ll find a golden 
pippin like Dr. Dabney, rounded out on all sides till 
you wouldn’t want to change the shape — not a mite — 
that’s mellow and juicy with kind feelin’ and sound clear 
through. But there ain’t many like that, I can tell you ! 
Most of ’em is a little knerly ! ” 

“ Why, Mrs. Debo ! ” laughed her patient. “ You 
speak in parables.” 

“ Parables ! Mr. McLain,” Mrs. Debo raised a 
shocked face, “ do you know who it was talked in 
parables? . . . Well, I’m mighty sinful, especially 
when I git to thinkin’ about Debo and Sandy’s back, but 
I hope I never will be so onChristian as to try to talk 
like my Saviour ! ” 

She w^s so genuinely disturbed that McLain could 
only beg her pardon in the humblest terms. 

“ Please go on,” he begged. “ I shall feel that you 
haven’t forgiven me unless you do.” 

“ Well, as I was a-sayin’,” she resumed, flattered at 
his interest, and naturally not wishing to leave a simile 
suspended in air, like Mohammed’s coffin, “ you can’t 


MRS. DfeBO DISCOURSES ON MEN 75 


expect all apples to be big. There’s scrub stock in apples 
— and men — same as there is in cattle. ‘ It ain’t size that 
counts, son,’ I says to Sandy, ' it’s soundness ! ’ And 
when you come to think of it, Mr. McLain, how many 
will you find in a load that’s sound through and 
through ? ” 

He shook his head and she answered her own chal- 
lenge. 

'‘Mighty few! You pick one up and think it’s all 
right, but here’s a little rotten spot, and you know — ef 
you know anything (and some women don’t seem to) 
that there spot is goin’ to spread. Then where’s your 
apple? . . . Then you come to one that you’d swear 
was good and firm clear through until you find a teensy 
weensy hole, and then you see there’s a worm there, 
a-gnawin’ its way in and in and in, jes’ for all the world 
like one of them secret sins that David talked to the 
Lord about — at the wrong time. . . . Well, you know 
that apple ain’t no good, for by the time you’ve cut out 
that worm and the tracks it’s made, you’ve kinder lost 
yo’ appetite for apples! 

" We won’t say nothin’ about them kind that’s fair 
lookin’ on the outside and rotten at the core — they are 
too bad to talk about — but they are in the load! You 
know that, Mr. McLain.” 

" They are there,” he assented. 

“ Of course, some folks would say women oughter 
look ’em over beforehand and find out; but I tell you 
a woman hasn’t got a even chanct with a man at findin’ 
out — and that’s the Lord’s truth! She can’t have, for 
half of ’em marries strangers that they don’t know nothin’ 
about — nothin’ but their looks — and looks don’t count 
for much after you’re married and got down to busi- 
ness ! . . . Women can’t know ! Do you s’pose I’d 
ever a-married Debo and trusted him with Sandy ef 
I’d a-knowed about his devil’s temper? No, sir! But 
you see he belt it in till we was married and he could 


76 THE MASTER OF «THE OAKS” 


safely let it out in the " sacred family circle,’ that Dr. 
Dabney talks so beautiful about.” 

'' He didn’t find it altogether safe then, did he ? ” 

No. He didn’t. But the trouble was when I found 
out — it was too late.” Her features worked painfully 
again in the grotesque way she had of strangling emotion. 

Of course I dropped him, — ^but that didn’t straighten 
Sandy’s back.” 

McLain felt like a brute to have led back to this. 

And it ain’t jes’ women like me — away down, as 
you may say, that marries without knowin’ the man and 
what he is. ^ Better marry one of the neighbour boys,’ 
I always tell ’em. ‘ It’s safter. Then you know what 
you’re gittin’.’ Now, you may not think that’s very 
polite, seein’ as you ain’t one of the neighbour boys — 
but you can’t say it ain’t good sense. Let’s suppose a 
case. S’posin’ you and Jean Dabney was to take a 
shine to one another, and ” 

“ I think we will not suppose that,” he said, quietly. 
‘‘ Confine yourself to apples — or the neighbour boys.” 

Yes, we will s’pose that. It ain’t goin’ to do no 
harm, and it’ll show you what I mean.” 

She stepped to the door leading into the hall and closed 
it, and he made no more protest. 

‘‘ Now as I was sayin’, s’pose you and Jean was to 
think of something serious. Well, ef you had half a 
notion of how serious it was, you’d want to be findin’ 
out something about one another. You wouldn’t take 
no risk! Jean Dabney’s life is jest as plain before you 
as that there winder-pane, and as clear to look through. 
You’re in her home; you know her folks; and you can 
jedge of the stock she’s come from, even to their house^ 
keepin’. No, you wouldn’t be takin’ no chances! But 
turn it the other way round, and what would Jean 
know? . . . Well, she could tell you was good-lookin’, 
even with a bandage on. She would know that you can 
talk mighty interestin’, and j edgin’ from yo’ manners and 


MRS. DEBO DISCOURSES ON MEN 77 


yo’ dictionary way of talkin' that yo’ maw was a mighty 
nice lady (and I for one am most sure of that) ; and 
she would know that you was kind-hearted and had a 
way of gittin' into people’s hearts — even when them 
hearts was tough as turkey gizzards, like mine, — but 
what chance would she ever have to find out what you 
was back of them things — they ain’t nothin’ but the 
outside of the apple! I say, how would she find out 
what you air? and where you’ve lived? and what you 
was up to while you was there? Why, she couldn’t get 
at the meat and core and reely know that you was 
sound; for all she’d know, you might be a bigamous, 
or a Mormon.” 

She had been busy jabbing her needle back and forth 
in a much darned stocking, which needed close attention. 
She glanced up now, however, amused and expecting him 
to be amused at the conceit of his being a Mormon. 

‘‘ Why, Mr. McLain ! ” she cried, startled at the pallor 
of his face. I am ashamed of myself I Me a-settin’ 
up to be a nurse and then talkin’ a patient to death with 
my foolishness. Well, I’m glad Dr. Llewellyn ain’t here ! 
Why didn’t you tell me you was tired ? . . . Here, you 
take a little sip of this wine. And then you lay back 
in your cheer and go to sleep. I’ll pull down the 
shade. . . . Why, I’m so ’shamed! . . You look 
plumb tuckered out ! ” 


VII 


ON THE PORCH 

B efore He saw jean's face again the lilacs had 
spent themselves and the old snowball tree had 
blossomed out one mass of white. Out on the 
borders Miss Lavinia’s peonies could not contain them- 
selves. The daffodils and hyacinths and tulips had long 
since put up their shutters and gone out of business. 

The time was long enough for McLain to have been 
promoted to crutches, a place on the porch, and a valet. 
The first two came in the ordinary course of nature ; the 
last was by inspiration. 

The young man had made good his promise to see 
after Sandy’s education. Miss Lavinia had looked up 
some old school books of Jean’s, and daily the lad pre- 
sented himself for lessons, proving both apt and eager. 

About this time Mrs. Debo had had a call to another 
case — a dangerous one — and to Mrs. Debo as to some 
physicians the scent of danger was the trumpet call. 
The case which elicited her best efforts was the one that 
appealed to her. 

"‘You don’t really need a nurse now, anyway,” she 
told her patient, “and yet you need somebody to wait 
on you.” 

“ Leave me Sandy, and you may go. I’ll keep Sandy 
as a valet!* 

“You are the last person in the world I would have 
expected to hear call a cripple names,” she answered, 
deeply wounded. 

When he had made his peace with her by an appeal 
to Dr. Dabney the plan was agreed upon, to the boy’s 
78 


ON THE PORCH 


79 


unbounded satisfaction. In opening up to the hunch- 
back the possibility of his entering the world of books 
McLain had let loose an imprisoned soul. He was in 
reality a sturdy lad in spite of his affliction, seeing which 
McLain, with* ready tact, made use of every opportunity 
to emphasize that strength and his own weakness. For 
poor Sandy the emphasis had hitherto been laid the 
other way, and his pleasure in being able to lend his 
shoulder for the support of a man two feet above him 
was touching. 

“ Why, you^re strong, boy,” said McLain, bearing down 
hard, strong and tough as a pine knot ! ” 

Sandy’s face shone. After that they walked the porch 
daily, and the boy’s eyes followed his master with the 
dumb devotion of an animal. 

On the porch Archer McLain formed the acquaintance 
of the neighbourhood — the Cartwrights, the Bascoms, 
the Davidsons, and others — simple, honest country folk 
they were, full of kindly sympathy for the young man 
stranded in their midst. He started to withdraw when 
the first visitor appeared, but Dr. Dabney protested so 
urgently that he abandoned the thought. It dawned 
upon him later that the man’s call might have been 
intended in part for himself, a supposition in which he 
was afterwards confirmed by his host. 

But why should they take any interest in me ? ” he 
asked. 

'' Because you are a stranger and in trouble,” answered 
the minister, simply. 

‘‘In trouble? You mean my leg?” 

“ Certainly. What else could I mean ? ” 

After this McLain met the doctor’s visitors with a 
frank pleasure and a keen interest in agricultural matters 
that won him many friends among them. He had that 
way of throwing himself into the life and interest of 
others which amounts to a gift with some persons and 
always makes for popularity. 


80 


THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


One day when Mr. Cartwright was there the conversa- 
tion turned upon the sheep industry in the West. 

Did you ever see a sheep-wagon, Mr. Cartwright ? ’’ 
McLain asked. 

No, sir, I can’t say I have.” 

“ That’s not strange, for it is a Western institution, 
and you say your life has been passed here in Missouri.” 

^^What is it?” 

A sheep-herder’s home on wheels. You know there 
is a great amount of grazing land in the West and 
sheep raising is a profitable industry. In the spring the 
sheep are taken into the mountains, advancing higher 
and higher as snow recedes, until in midsummer they 
graze among the grassy valleys of the mountain ranges 
and on the cool, high plateaus. As winter approaches 
they gradually retire to lower levels, and by the time 
of general snowfall they are roaming over low, broad 
ranges, where the native bunch grass, matured through 
the summer, is waiting for them. 

'' Well, the sheep-wagon is an outgrowth of these 
conditions. With it the herder can lead his flock up 
the mountains or down the mountains as he pleases and 
not have so much as to set up his tent to be at home.” 

“ How does it differ from other wagons ? ” 

“At first glance you would think it was an ordinary 
mover’s wagon, but a closer inspection discloses some 
points of difference.” 

“ The lack of tow-headed children, for one thing, I 
suppose,” suggested Mr. Cartwright. 

“ Exactly. And the dragged-out looking woman, for 
another. It is an unusually long, broad, well-covered 
wagon, but it has some unique features. Above the 
wheels, and high enough to clear them, is a projection 
of about fifteen inches on each side. As the wagon 
bows are fastened to the outer edge of this projection 
the width of the inside is materially increased and two 
good seats provided at the sides. Broad strips of wood 


ON THE PORCH 


81 


running lengthwise (of similar material as the bows 
and fastened firmly to them) make a stout framework 
for the top, and the whole is covered with a heavy 
canvas so securely fastened down that there is no danger 
of flapping edges, to give entrance to the wind, for this 
is a house, you understand, and for pretty high altitudes.’’ 

“ A house without windows, of course.” 

“No, sir! A house with windows. The one I am 
describing had four, — a window about a foot square on 
each side and another in the' tightly stretched canvas 
that formed the back. This is to light the bunk that 
goes across the end. Sometimes there are two bunks and 
two windows one above the other. A door in two sec- 
tions closes the front of this vehicle as snugly as a 
house and in the upper section is another window.” 

“ That certainly is curious.” 

“ It really is. The wagon has every appearance of 
a canvas house on wheels, especially when from the stove- 
pipe in its top is seen issuing smoke.” 

“A stove too?” 

“ Oh, yes ; there^s always a cook stove, bolted down 
so as to be secure, and then under the wagon is a pad- 
locked receptacle for provisions. You see, a sheep- 
herder’s wagon is his private car in which he eats, sleeps, 
cooks, and lives. It afifords him not only transportation 
but shelter; and it is fitted up with as much economy 
of space as a Pullman car. Oh, I forgot to tell you about 
the table. Most of them have a swing table that is drawn 
up to the top when not in use, and can be lowered at 
will. It is convenient not only at meal-time but at night 
if the herder wants to read.” 

“ Say, doctor,” said Mr. Cartwright, turning to the 
minister after some further talk about stock raising, 
“ this is no city man. He’s a farmer I ” 

McLain laughed. He had used his stockman’s lore 
to the best possible advantage, and indeed the i amount 
of it was somewhat surprising to Dr. Dabney himself, 


82 


THE MASTER OF «THE OAKS” 


who had never happened to hear him on this subject 
before. 

“ Mr. McLain,” he said, after Mr. Cartwright was 
gone, “ your knowledge of the sheep industry is a sur- 
prise to me. Where in the world did you get it ? ” 

A closer observer might have noticed a momentary 
embarrassment in the young man at the question. Then 
he replied breezily: 

“The wagon I had an opportunity once to observe 
rather closely, and I have never forgotten it. The rest 
is theoretical — largely — and like most theoretical knowl- 
edge passes for more than it is worth. The truth of the 
matter is that I was once in a place where I had a good 
deal of time on my hands and some old Agricultural 
Reports. I got interested in the subject in that way. . . . 
By the way, where is this old Bascom place that Mr. 
Cartwright was speaking about? The one that is to 
be sold. It isn’t Mr. John Bascom’s?” 

“ No. It is the old home place. It was sold at the 
time of Major Bascom’s death — that’s John’s father, 
you understand — to a Mr. Olmstead; but he has never 
been able to meet the payments, and his sudden death 
a few months ago throws the place back on John’s 
hands.” 

“ Is it much of a farm ? ” 

“ It is a good farm — none better in this neighbourhood 
— but it has run down. Mr. Olmstead was not much of 
a manager, and then latterly I imagine he got discour- 
aged.” 

“ I see. How far is it from here? ” 

“ About a mile. Over in this direction.” 

“ Where you can see the light at night ? ” asked 
McLain, eagerly. 

“ I don’t know but you can see the lights from the 
upper windows. I rather think you can. You can get 
a glimpse of the house itself in the winter. It is rather 
too leafy now.” 


ON THE PORCH 


83 


I’ve often noticed that place. Yes, I can see the 
light from my window. How are the buildings?” 

‘'Unusually good, though John tells me they are out 
of repair like the farm. The house is an old-fashioned 
one, I suppose you would say, but well-built and on a 
generous scale. I think there is a small tenant house 
on the place now — one that Mr. Olmstead put up. The 
house stands in a natural grove of oaks and the porches 
are covered with roses. It is a pity to see a place like 
that run down. The old Bascom place is one of the 
landmarks in this neighbourhood. John tells me they 
are anxious to sell. Rented farm property is a poor 
investment.” 

He took up the Christian Observer that had been laid 
aside for the visitor and was soon absorbed in its con- 
tents. McLain too took up his paper but not to read. 
A startling, persistent thought had taken possession of 
him. When the doctor looked up at the turning of a 
page McLain interrupted : 

“ How large is the tenant house ? ” 

“ Beg pardon. The tenant house ? What tenant 
house? ” 

“ On the Bascom place.” 

“ Oh ! Four or five rooms, I think John said. Why ? ” 

“ Nothing. Not having much to do actively just now 
I am cultivating an interest in my neighbours’ affairs.” 

Dr. Dabney laid down his paper with a contrite feeling 
that he was neglecting a guest. 

“ It has been rather hard for you, Mr. McLain, to be 
cooped up here with two old people like my sister and 
myself. The young need the young. I am glad to say 
that Genevieve will be back to-morrow. When she 
comes and you are well enough she shall drive you over 
to see the old Bascom place. In rose season it is worth 
the drive.” 

It was on the porch that McLain ran again across 


84 


THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


the name of Zeb Horn, which for some reason had a 
strange sort of fascination for him. Sandy had been 
talking with the doctor about the proposed plan of his 
learning the shoemaker’s trade, which the minister 
strongly endorsed. When the boy was gone McLain 
asked, ''Who is this Zeb Horn, doctor?” 

" A most unfortunate man in our midst who has a 
reputation that I think is entirely undeserved. But you 
know the old adage, ' Give a dog a bad name,’ etc.” 

A bitter smile curved McLain’s lips. " I know ! ” 

'' Undoubtedly the man has had a past that is un- 
fortunate, but it would have to be something very heinous 
to justify the persistent ostracism to which he has been 
subjected since he has been here. I shall never forget 
the first time I ever saw him. It was in church. You 
know we have a gallery in our church building which 
was used long ago by the negroes. It has fallen into 
disuse since the war, because they worship now in their 
own little log church. Well, my attention was attracted 
one Sunday by seeing a man slip quietly into the back 
seat of the gallery — a white man. He had evidently 
come up the back stairway and did not wish to be ob- 
served. He was perfectly safe, for no one could see 
him but myself. (This was before the choir was given 
a place beside the pulpit.) 

" I was giving out the hymn, ' Rock of Ages,’ when he 
sat down. I never shall forget the intensity of his 
attention during the reading nor his emotion during the 
singing. Evidently it touched some tender chord. Those 
old hymns do, you know.” 

McLain made a quick gesture with his head, but did 
not speak. 

" Mr. McLain, I shall always be glad that my sermon 
that day was on the love of God! We ministers never 
know but there may be among our hearers a trembling 
soul! I had written that sermon for my congregation, 
as I supposed, — but I preached it to the man in the gal- 


ON THE PORCH 


85 


lery. During the long prayer he had slipped a few seats 
nearer. At its close I gave out again the hymn, ' Rock 
of Ages.’ I could see that the choir was disconcerted, 
but I said to them, ' I wish to sing this hymn again.’ 
And I added the invitation, which I often give, that if 
there was any soul present who felt his need of such a 
refuge he would come to it to-day — and would in some 
way indicate his choice. 

'' At the third verse 

“ * Nothing in my hand I bring, 

Simply to thy cross I cling;’ 

the man rose, stood a moment, and then dropped back 
into his seat. When the prayer was finished he was 
gone. I found out afterward that it was Zeb Horn, of 
whom I had at that time hardly heard.” 

*‘You have talked with him since?” 

*'Yes. But he is very reticent.” Then he said in a 
half-apologetic tone, I don’t know why I should have 
told you this, Mr. McLain. I certainly did not intend to 
when I began. I have never related this before to any 
one.” 

I am glad to have heard it, doctor. It was evidently 
a vital experience with the man.” 

“ Unquestionably. I found afterwards that he had not 
supposed he was observed.” 

^‘H-m!” 

McLain found himself wondering often in the next few 
days about the man’s history, of which Dr. Dabney gave 
no hint. He determined that as soon as he was able to 
ride he would go down to the shoemaker’s. 

When Jean came they settled at once into their old 
pleasant relations. 

“ Why did you stay so long ? ” he asked, reproachfully. 

You said a week and it has been forty.” 


86 


THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


‘‘ Three, lacking a day,” she corrected. “ And I said 
a week or two” 

I am not speaking of calendar weeks, but the passage 
of time.” 

Poor fellow ! ” she mocked. “ I am afraid they 
haven’t treated you well.” 

'^They have treated me far beyond my just deserts. 
Miss Lavinia has read the Bible to me until I know it 
by heart; your father has prayed me downstairs; and 
my nurse has handed me over to a varlet.” 

^‘Kwhatf” 

A varlet. Haven’t you heard about my varlet ? 
Well, it is Sandy. .Would you ever have thought it? 
You see, his mother objected to his being called a valet, 
seeing in it some hidden reference to his size, and when 
I told her it was French, and spelled the word for her 
and your father confirmed it — ^you see how far my word 
goes — she agreed very willingly that Sandy should be it, 
but since she was American she would call it plain 
varlet as it ought to be. She has since adopted the word 
with some pride, I believe, and uses it to astonish the 
natives on the creek — always explaining that it is French. 
But even with a varlet I needed you. I wanted you.” 

There was such evident truth under his bantering 
words that they thrilled her. 

I left you Mr. Maltby’s books,” she laughed, with 
heightened colour. 

Maltby’s books ! What are another fellow’s books 
to you when what you are wanting to see is the girl he 
sent them to? I began half a dozen of them, but they 
had no flavour. They were not half so good as your 
magazine stories. It was like eating unsalted rice after 
a sauce piquante.” 

“You nonsensical creature! Here, give me one of 
those books and let me see what’s the matter with it.” 

The reading went on blithely as the weeks sped by. 
The number of volumes read was not great, but some- 


ON THE PORCH 


87 


how they both felt that they were having a full course. 
And a porch in Missouri in May is such a delightful 
place. The orchard over at the left, which they could 
have in full sight by going around to the south piazza, 
was a shifting panorama of colour. One week when the 
peach trees had their day it was a glory of pink; the 
next, the scene was shifted and the plum trees had on 
their bridal robes; and then before they had quite had 
their fill of these the screen unrolled on something fairer 
yet in the unapproachable blossoms of the old apple 
orchard with its delicate sea-shell tints. Jean kept his 
table filled with them, and then when he declared that 
the apple blossoms were unsurpassed and unsurpassable 
she helped him down to the pasture where the crab 
apples were, just to prove that he had not exhausted 
the category of rural affluence. 

He sent her to the house then for twine, and while she 
read he sat on the grass propped up against the tree trunk 
and made a wreath of the pink blossoms and laid it on 
her bent head with mock humility and did her and the 
blossoms homage in very truth. 

It was really quite bearable, this convalescence, — so 
much so that he was tempted sometimes to prolong it 
indefinitely, and might have done so — not being over 
strict in bringing himself to account, had it not been for 
the wholesome fear of Dr. Llewellyn’s sharp eyes. It 
must be admitted that there are some mitigating features 
about an illness that permits a young man of twenty-five 
to lie at ease in a reclining chair on a shady piazza, held 
by an ankle that no longer pains him, listening to love 
stories read by a young woman of twenty with hair of 
reddish brown that catches the glint from every stray 
sunbeam filtering through the wistaria. He found him- 
self watching for it as he lay there listening to the soft 
cadences of her voice, his attention quite impartially 
divided between the text, the glint, and the soft bloom 
on her cheek that rivalled the apple blossoms. 


88 


THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS’’ 


Jean was giving up a good deal of her time to him 
these days, for of course the hours were heavy on his 
hands, and there were the forty weeks to make up to 
him. They found among Mr. Maltby’s contributions sev- 
eral new books that must be begun at once. The reading 
was not continuous by any means. Often it led to dis- 
cussions of this or that involved in the story, — discus- 
sions which led off into highways and byways of dis- 
cursive talk until they were at a loss sometimes to dis- 
cover the track that had led them to this particular 
station and were obliged to take short cuts across country 
to the point from which they started. 

But the byways are pleasanter oftentimes than the 
broad road. They came to know each other through 
these readings, or more truthfully, these talks. The in- 
telligent discussion of a book between two persons of 
sympathetic tastes reveals them each to the other as 
months of ordinary surface intercourse does not. They 
feel, and not unjustifiably, that each has gained, in this 
impersonal way, entrance into the sanctuary of the other’s 
inner thoughts. 

What a relentless critic Jean was! How ruthlessly 
she tore the helpless characters to pieces, usually the 
youthful hero or heroine, but now and then even old 
grizzled men and women as well in her impatience at 
motives governing them — motives which as yet were 
undreamed of in the philosophy of her one score years. 
Ah! how much less we know, and how much less con- 
fidently we know that little after a lifetime of thought 
than at the beginning! 

They were sitting one night all together at family 
prayers, which the good doctor always had early, mainly 
for the convenience of the servants, but partly because 
this arrangement left each member of the family free 
to follow his untrammelled inclinations afterwards, 
whithersoever they led him— the doctor’s piety not being 


ON THE PORCH 89 

of that ascetic type which makes a virtue of mortifying 
other people’s flesh. 

But the evening prayer was as inevitable as dawn or 
sunset. As priest of his own household Dr. Dabney 
expected the attendance upon this service of all, what- 
ever the condition or colour; this being satisfied, they 
were exempt thereafter from call or fear of intrusion 
upon their inner life, for the obtrusion of his religious 
convictions upon anybody under his roof was no part 
of the good doctor’s conception of duty to God or his 
neighbour. He had family worship as he had breakfast, 
and would no sooner have thought of omitting the service 
for the reason that a guest was unaccustomed to it than 
he would have thought it expedient to dispense with the 
morning meal because that guest had fallen a victim to 
the “ no breakfast fad.” The offering of daily spiritual 
manna was a part of the hospitality of the house. 

To the custom — while a little inclined to smile at it 
at first — McLain felt no repulsion. In fact, it rather 
pleased his aesthetic fancy to see the patriarchal gather- 
ing night and morn; to listen to the stately measures of 
Hebrew poetry as they fell from the lips of this white- 
haired prophet of the nineteenth century. There was 
something very picturesque in the group of negro serv- 
ants over in the corner — three generations — from with- 
ered old Uncle Ephraim to the children, who came in 
bringing with them their little split-bottomed chairs, 
wherein they sat with great decorum and wildly rolling 
eyes. It was an epoch in the lives of little Ephraim’s 
children when they were old enough to be promoted to 
“ pra’r’s.” 

During McLain’s confinement to his room the coloured 
contingent had been excused from attendance, but with 
his coming downstairs the old order was restored. He 
was unaccustomed to both worship and negroes, and the 
element of novelty, combined with the pleasurable sen- 
sation incident to singing from the same book with Jean 


90 


THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


Dabney, made the devotional hour altogether enjoyable 
to him. 

On this night he was preoccupied. He had been 
dreaming dreams out on the porch as Jean read, dreams 
about the old Bascom place; what he could do with it 
as a farm with money; what he could make of it as a 
home — with a helper. The thought had been gaining in 
force for days, and to-night he was completely possessed 
by it. Miss Lavinia had told of the flower garden and 
its glories in Mother Bascom’s day; how the dear old 
lady coming there a bride had walked its paths for forty 
years. And now it was going the way of all uncared 
for things! In imagination he saw it restored and an- 
other walking there a bride, and might it be for forty 
years? With this thought beating in his soul, his outer 
ear caught the words falling from the minister’s lips: 

The trespass money and sin money was not brought 
into the house of the Lord.” 

The context was lost to him completely. These words 
stood off by themselves as an island stands in the midst 
of the waters, and as if to emphasize them still more 
the doctor read them again thoughtfully : '' The trespass 
money and sin money was not brought into the house of 
the Lord.” 

Then without warning he turned to his guest. 

‘‘ Would you consider that an argument against the 
use of ‘tainted money,’ Mr. McLain?” 

Archer McLain caught his breath. 

‘‘ I — I beg your pardon, doctor,” he stammered, con- 
scious of Jean’s amused eyes upon him, “ I hardly think 
— I am — qualified ” 

The good doctor perceived his embarrassment. 

“ It almost seems as if that passage might be so 
construed,” he said, quietly, and resumed the reading, to 
which McLain gave diligent though perturbed heed, 
without so much as a glance in Jean’s direction. 

On the porch he burst forth with his grievance. 


ON THE PORCH 91 

See here ! Is your father liable to scare a fellow 
to death that way often?” 

Almost any time/' returned Jean, composedly. “ Has 
he never asked your opinion about a passage of Scripture 
before?” 

Never!” 

Not all the time I was gone? ” 

No. Why should he ? ” 

‘‘ Well, he is likely to at any time.” 

^‘Heavens! And I with a broken leg! Why, hasn't 
your father discrimination enough to see that I am not 
a commentator ? ” 

Jean's pent up laughter bubbled over, but she replied 
at last with greatest gravity, To my father all persons 
are possible commentators. He supposes that every in- 
telligent person reads the Bible and has an opinion 
about what he reads. And he feels as free to call on 
you for yours as you would be to ask for mine about a 
novel.” 

Why, this is fearful ! ” he declared. I shall never 
feel easy a moment again at prayers ! ” 

Oh, he won't ask you questions if he knows you feel 
that way.” 

Well, tell him! Go up now and tell him. I don't 
want to take any chances. Why, I felt as if even the 
African corner was laughing at me ! ” 

“ I didn't see anybody laugh.” 

'' I did,” he said, meaningly, and she bubbled over 
again. 

Well, you did look so scared I ” 

Anybody would look scared. What are the * trespass 
money and sin money ' anyway ? How should I know 
about them ? ” 

“ By study of the Scriptures — the same way father 
knows.” 

For some reason it was not the funny thing to him 
it was to her. The ‘ sin money,' ” he repeated. “ How 


92 THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 

did he happen to hit on that ? And why was he interested 
in it? ” 

That’s very easy to see. Father has been much 
interested in this discussion in the religious papers about 
the advisability of institutions of learning and churches 
accepting gifts of so-called ' tainted money.’ You’ve 
seen it, of course. He happened to. come across a pas- 
sage in the ordinary course of his reading that he thought 
bore on the subject and he wanted to get your opinion.” 

“ Yes, my opinion would be so valuable! I don’t even 
know what ‘ sin money ’ is. What is it ? ” 

You might ask father,” she suggested. 

“ Not on your life 1 This is a closed incident. I want 
it so understood. . . . ‘ Sin money ’ ! ” 

I suppose this does seem, queer to you, Mr. McLain, 
but it doesn’t to me because I am accustomed to it. If 
father has never asked us any questions since you have 
been here it has only happened so. He often does. And 
he turns to the negroes with a word of explanation any 
time at all. 

“ You see, the Bible is to my father the ultimate 
authority and rule of conduct. Everything in his life is 
squared by it. It is of the utmost importance to him 
therefore that his household should understand it, and 
whenever an explanatory word or a question will eluci- 
date its meaning he does not hesitate to give the one or 
ask the other. This makes our worship very in- 
formal ” 

“ Informal ! I should say so ! ” 

but my father’s religion is too much a part of 

himself to leave room for formality. It is ingrained. 
He believes as fully that God is our dear Heavenly 
Father watching over us and caring for us as he cares 
for me; — that the Bible is His word to teach us how 
to live as you believe in the air you breathe and the 
ground you walk on. It is a simple, old-fashioned faith 
! — but it has made my father what he is.” 


ON THE PORCH 


93 


And it is your faith as well ? ” 

“ Yes/’ she said after a moment’s hesitation, a faint 
flush overspreading her face. She felt that there was a 
lurking inclination behind the question to make light of 
it all. And therein she did him injustice. 

“ Yes, it is mine too. But if it were not mine I should 
honour it just the same, because it is his. I have never 
known a mother, Mr. McLain. I revere my father be- 
yond any living being. His religious faith is as sacred 
to me as — as your mother’s prayers are to you.” 

He dropped his head into his hands. 

Don’t speak of her ! ” he cried, passionately. I 
broke my mother’s heart ! ” 

Poor Jean sat in shocked silence. At last she forced 
herself to speak. 

“ Mr. McLain, I am so sorry ! I don’t know what I 
have done, but you must know I didn’t mean to hurt 
you.” 

He raised his eyes to hers. “You haven’t done any- 
thing. And I was a brute to speak as I did. I hope 
you will never think of it again. It was only that you 
inadvertently touched a raw spot. . . . My mother. 
Miss Dabney, was to me all that your father is to you. 
I — I did something once that was a great grief to her. 
I can’t tell you about that now. If I could have talked 
with her myself I think I could have made her under- 
stand — ^but — she died before I could get to her.” 

The hopeless pain in the man’s face touched her more 
than his passionate outburst of a moment before. 

“ She knows it all now, Mr. McLain, and she has 
forgiven, if there was anything to forgive — ^you may be 
sure of that.” 

“ But I wanted to talk to her,” he cried with something 
of his former vehemence, “ just once — just once — until 
I could explain — could make her understand! k., .1 

That was all I asked — and it was denied me ! ” 

“ She understands — and she forgives,” the girl reiter- 


94 


THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


ated with gentle insistence. ‘‘That's what fathers and 
mothers are for, I think — to ‘forgive us our transgres- 
sions and love us freely.’ ” 

“ Sometimes I dream of her,” he said in a low tone, 
after a long silence. “ I can see her so plainly and she 
always has on her face that tender, yearning look she 
used to wear when I was a boy and had done something 
wrong. But the dream never goes any farther. When 
I reach out to touch her she is gone. ... A strange 
thing happened to me here in this very house once. It 
was the day I first saw you, the morning I came to 
myself. I was lying in that semi-conscious state that 
morphine sometimes produces — seemingly asleep, but 
two-thirds awake. As I lay there it seemed to me I 
heard somebody say distinctly, ‘ My son! — my son! ’ 
I could have sworn it was a voice, but I could not rouse 
myself nor speak. The narcotic held me. When finally 
I did wake there was nobody there but your aunt. It 
is foolish, but it makes me happier whenever I think of 
it. It seemed almost as if she wanted to say, ‘ I know.’ ” 

Recollection stirred thus, he told her much about his 
family and his early life in the East — of his father, whom 
he but dimly remembered; of the little sister who had 
died, leaving him the only child; but most of all of 
his mother and all she had been to him. 

Then she confided to him how she too had all her 
life lacked the companionship of a sister or a brother 
and had longed for it, but how she had been, like him, 
forced back upon herself and the love of the one parent 
left. After such confidences two persons are never quite 
the same in their relations to one another. Her sym- 
pathy had been of that divine kind that opened his heart 
and unsealed his lips, and when he told her simply, 
without making any appeal for sympathy, of his utter 
lack of family and his loneliness in the world, she felt 
infinite pity for him — the pity that was then, is now, and 
ever shall be, akin to love. 


ON THE PORCH 95 

“ Let us be brother and sister to each other from this 
time on,” she said, earnestly. 

And he agreed to this with a half-smile which the 
darkness covered, admitting to himself that it was as 
much as he should ask, but knowing in his heart of 
hearts that it was far from what his soul craved. 


VIII 


ZEB HORN 

A t Mr. Freno^s, down on the creek, a domestic 
tempest was brewing. 

^ “ Sally Ann, what in the name er sense do you 

s’pose is keepin’ yo’ paw? He ’lowed he’d be here by 
twelve o’clock, and here it is nearly one. It is the most 
aggravatin’ thing to get a meal er victuals ready and 
have nobody here to eat it ! That chicken will be plumb 
ruint ! What do you s’pose he’s doin’ ? ” 

“ Talkin’,” said Sally Ann, laconically, her chair tilted 
back comfortably against the wall. She was making 
tatting out of No. 70 cotton for a full set of under- 
clothes and had no time for words or worry. 

Well, I’ve no patience with people that are everlast- 
ingly talkin’,” said Mrs. Freno, severely, in manifest 
violation of her own principles. “ Yo’ paw would ruther 
tell a story than eat, any day. . . . Now, look at them 
flies!” — with increasing irritation. “You, Bud!” — to 
the boy on the horse-blocks — “ bring me a limb. And 
then you set thar and holler when you see yo’ paw.” 

Bud brought the limb — a branch from the locust tree 
which was the country fly-brush of a screenless section; 
and Mrs. Freno, taking a seat at the waiting table, gave 
herself up to keeping off the flies. 

The table was set on the porch, which running as it 
did the length of two rooms and a passage and being a 
matter of twelve or fifteen feet in width was ample 
even for the multitudinous uses to which it was put. 
The east end was kept sacred to dining-room purposes, 
Mrs. Freno declaring that she would not have any 
96 


ZEB HORN 


97 


plunder ” around the table ; but the condition of things 
further down — the pile of carpet-rags which the good 
lady had been assorting and cutting, the winding-blades 
filled with hanks of white rags ready for dyeing, and the 
bags of balls hanging from the steelyards — indicated that 

plunder ” was not tabooed on this back porch, but only 
kept within bounds. 

A big wheel was at the other end, and two or three 
saddles, male and female, were thrown over the joists, 
their stirrups bringing them within easy reach. A scythe 
or two hung on the wall, and beside them two faded, 
mud-spattered riding skirts. 

It was an old-time country porch in Missouri, where 
the family lived and moved and had their being. It 
served as sitting-room, dining-room, work-room, and 
bath — for over Sally Ann's head was a small looking- 
glass with a yellow pasteboard comb-case under it, and 
at the edge of the porch was a rude shelf that held the 
wash basin and a cedar bucket with a gourd in it. The 
gourd was dark and water-soaked, with a dank, musty 
smell which comes back vividly to one after a happy 
oblivion of no matter how many years! Nobody could 
have told why it was used until it got into this condition, 
for certainly there were plenty of gourds. There was 
a bunch of them all ready for use hanging against the 
wall, and mammoth ones used as receptacles for all sorts 
of things were sitting around. Mrs. Freno had a family 
of, young chickens in one, and up in the corner was a 
giant half filled with eggs. The Frenos called them 
** hen-aigs.” 

The owner of all this wealth switched her brush 
vigorously, being in that state of irritation which always 
leads a woman to attack something when dinner is wait- 
ing. Just then Bud announced, “ Paw’s cornin’,” and she 
rose. 

By the time dinner was on the table Mr. Freno had 
emerged, dripping and sputtering, from the wash basin, 


98 


THE MASTER OF «THE OAKS” 


to retire into the folds of the family towel; and when 
Ma’-Tiza, the ewe lamb of the Freno flock, who ap- 
peared at this moment moist and rosy from her morning 
nap, had been cuddled a moment and then settled in her 
high chair, he gave a final “ roach ” to his wet locks 
before the crinkly glass, and gravely took his seat. 

Mrs. Freno had sat opposite her spouse at table for 
twenty years, and knew him, as she often averred, like 
a book — which was not saying much, after all, for her 
knowledge of books was more limited than her knowl- 
edge of any other earthly thing — and when his voice 
sank in asking the blessing a note or two below its usual 
unintelligible pitch, and he forgot to say “ Amen,’^ she 
divined that something was the matter. So she prudently 
husbanded the prepared piece of her mind,’’ and asked 
only: 

‘‘What kep’ you?” 

“ I had to serve on a coroner’s jury. Zeb Horn’s 
dead.” 

“Zeb Horn! You don’t say so! When did he die? 
What was the matter with him? How did you hear 
about it?” 

Mr. Freno was accustomed to beginning at the last 
of his wife’s questions, and by a sort of back action work- 
ing his way through them one by one. Accordingly, he 
answered : 

“ It seems that Drusilla Debo has been thinkin’ about 
puttin’ that crippled boy of hern in with Zeb Horn' to 
learn the shoemaker’s trade, and she went over thar this 
mornin’ to talk with him about it. She knocked at the 
do’, but nobody answered and she said she jes’ made 
so bold as to raise the latch and walk in. Thar laid Zeb, 
stiff and cold, in bed with a quilt drawed up around him 
like he was asleep.” 

“ Dead?” 

“Yes. Well, — Druse Debo has got as much sense, 
pretty near, as a man ” — ^in the excitement of the narra- 


ZEB HORN 


tive Mrs. Freno let this pass — “ and she got on her horse 
and went straight for the coroner — he lives near thar, 
you know — and he got a jury together and we went over 
to Zeb’s and looked things over and brought in a verdict.” 

''And what was it?” 

" That he died a natch’ul death.” 

"Was it heart disease?” 

" No, the doctor didn’t think so.” 

" What doctor ? ” 

" Dr. Llewellyn. He happened to be down at old Mrs. 
Dunklin’s and they called him in.” 

" Oh, well, William Llewellyn would know. I thought 
maybe it was that snip of a fellow that goes around with 
his little sugar pills. Did Dr. Llewellyn think it was 
apoplexy ? ” 

" Apoplexy ! No. No man ever had apoplexy that 
looked like Zeb Horn. Why, he was jes’ skin and 
bones.” 

Mrs. Freno leaned forward with a horror-stricken 
face. 

"Ad’niram Fyeno! You don’t s’pose Zeb Horn 
starved to death ? ” 

"My Lord, Marthy!” returned Mr. Freno, testily. 
" What makes you look at me that-a-way ? I don’t know 
what was the matter with Zeb Horn any more’n you 
do ! But I know he didn’t starve to death, for the 
cupboard had groceries in it that hadn’t never been 
opened. On the table by him was a bag of oranges and 
some port wine.” 

" Port wine ! and oranges ! Why, somebody must 
a-took him them things.” 

" I reckon he got the groceries jes* befo’ he taken 
sick.” 

"Has he been sick? How do you know he’s been 
sick ? ” 

" Lige Coyt was one of the jury and he said Dr. 
Dabney stopped at his house on his way over to Big 


100 THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


Bethel (you know he’s holdin’ a protracted meetin* 
over thar), and he told Lige he had jes’ come from Zeb’s 
and he was mighty po’ly, and some of the neighbours 
better go in and see him, and Lige said he fully ’lowisd 
to do it, but he put it off till the next day (you know 
what a putter-off Lige is), and then something come up 
and he clean forgot it.” 

And nary a soul went near him all the time he was 
sick? ” 

As I told you, nary a soul knowed he was sick but 
Lige, and he disremembered it.” 

Mrs. Freno shut her lips tight. 

In a Christian land ! If Fd had my way,” — sig- 
nificantly — Zeb Horn would a-been settin’ here to-day 
at this table ! ” 

“ Now, Marthy,” — Mr. Freno spoke impatiently, as if 
some chord of self-reproach had been touched — what 
makes you always bring that up? You know I didn’t 
want to turn Zeb off, but what was I to do? The 
thrashers jes’ said p’intedly they wouldn’t work ef Zeb 
stayed. I couldn’t let ’em go off in the midst of 
thrashin’.” 

“ He was one of the best hands we ever had,” said 
his wife. 

“ Yes, he was so. I never saw a faithfuller hand than 
Zeb Horn. I never turnt him off because he wan’t 
faithful — Zeb knowed that — but the thrashers jes’ said 
up and down they wan’t goin’ to work with a felon.” 

“ Paw, what was it Zeb Horn done? ” asked Sally Ann. 

“ Well, I really don’t know, honey, what it was. Some 
says he stole a horse, and some says he was a counter- 
feiter, and ” 

'' Well, I don’t care what they say,” said Mrs. Freno, 
with decision, “ I know Zeb Horn wan’t a bad man. 
Ma’-’Liza never would a-took to him like she did ef he 
had been. Chil’n has instincts, same as animals, and she 
took to Zeb from the start. Sally Ann, do you remem- 


ZEB HORN 


101 


ber how he used to tote her up and down the porch and 
down to the milkin’ pen; and how she’d put her arms 
around his neck and call him her Zebbie ? ” 

And Ma’-’Liza, stirred to remembrance by the recital 
and not at all comprehending what was the matter, looked 
up with clouded brow and repeated, Ma’-’Liza love 
Zebbie.” 

“ Zeb was a awful good hand to make traps,” said 
Bud, regretfully. “ He made ’em last winter for all 
us boys till you-all found we was goin’ over there and 
stopped us.” 

'' He was mighty trusty about the stock,” said Mr. 
Freno. 

And the kindest-hearted thing to animals of all 
kinds,” added his wife. '' Thar wan’t a dumb brute on 
the place but would foller him around. And he liked it. 
I used to think it was kind of company for him. . . . 
Poor Zeb ! . . . Has he been laid out yet ? ” 

“ No. Ben Tolies and me ’lowed we’d go over after 
dinner and ’tend to it. You might go over too, Marthy, 
and see about cleanin’ up a little. Bud can saddle old 
Kit for you. ... He ain’t really got anything to be 
laid out in,” he continued, but a pa’r old jeans pants 
and a hickory shirt. Haven’t I got a old pa’r black 
pants, Marthy, I could take over, and a white shirt?” 

Mrs. Freno cast her eyes toward a garment swinging 
back and forth from a nail in the joist just above the 
carpet rags. 

“ I was layin’ off to use them pants for the black and 
white stripe in my cyarpet,” she said, a trifle reluctantly, 
but I don’t know. ... I s’pose I could have it plain 
hit and miss. . . . Only I’ve laid off all along to have 
a twisted stripe — ^but ” 

'‘Well, I wouldn’t send ’em then,” said Mr. Freno, 
with sympathetic understanding of his wife’s feelings; 
"you’ve set your heart on it, and it won’t really make 
no difference to Zeb, nohow.” 


102 THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


This decided Mrs. Freno. 

“ Ad’niram,” she said, firmly, I wouldn’t let a feller 
mortal go to the grave in brown jeans pants if I never 
had a twisted stripe to my dying day.” 

With Mrs. Freno renunciation could go no farther. 

Meantime — who was Zeb Horn? What had he done? 

Nobody could tell. All that was known of him was 
that a few years ago he had come to the Tinkling Spring 
neighbourhood asking for work. He was gaunt and un- 
gainly, and had little in his personal appearance to rec- 
ommend him, but he was an untiring worker. He could 
do more work, Mr. Cartwright declared, than any two 
men he ever had. But he was not a favourite with his 
fellow-workmen. He never talked, for one thing — ■ 
never laughed and joked as the rest did — not, appar- 
ently, that he didn’t want to, but that he didn’t know how. 
He seemed somehow out of practice. He would open 
his mouth occasionally as if he contemplated saying 
something, but before he could get it out the stream of 
talk would have swept by him and left him stranded 
on the rock of silence. 

Then he had a way of glancing over his shoulder as 
if he were expecting something or somebody to be there, 
which was commented upon quite freely by the other 
hands. 

'' It gives me the creeps,” said Hank Miller one day, 
“to see Zeb Horn lookin’ over his shoulder. What do 
you s’pose he ’lows to see ? ” He asked him one day. 
Zeb grew livid, but he only shook his head. He tried 
to break himself of it after that, but the power of habit 
is strong. 

The man worked for Mr. Cartwright nearly a year. 
One day he was told that he would not be wanted any 
more. It was in the midst of corn-planting, and Zeb 
knew he couldn’t well be spared, but Mr. Cartwright had 
spoken with averted face and so he asked no questions. 


ZEB HORN 


103 


He got another place and stayed a month or so. Then 
his employer told him he had concluded to get another 
man. And so it went. 

A little settlement had sprung up between the Tinkling 
Spring church and the creek — Henyon’s store, a black- 
smith shop, a shoemaker’s, and a few houses. At last, 
in desperation, Zeb went to the shoemaker and asked 
for work. The man enquired where he had learned his 
trade. ''Down south of here,” Zeb had told him, his 
face as livid as before. The shoemaker needed help and 
he told him to put on his apron. So Zeb went to work 
making shoes. 

He made them as if he were in practice. The shoe- 
maker said curiously one day, " They certainly knowed 
how to make shoes down south whar you learnt your 
trade.” His assistant merely nodded and went on with 
his work. 

One day a customer came to the shop who, on leaving, 
beckoned to the shoemaker to follow him. They had a 
half-hour of talk at the horse-blocks. When the shoe- 
maker returned, he said to Zeb: 

" Whar did you say you learnt your trade ? ” 

" I said I learnt it down south of here,” Zeb replied, 
doggedly. 

"I reckon you learnt it at Jefferson, didn’t you?” 
asked the shoemaker, with quiet significance. 

" Yes,” said the man, laying down his last and taking 
off his apron. " I did.” He knew what it would come 
to. 

" ’Nough said. You know I can’t have you here.” 

And Zeb went forth again. 

He had lived, since he had been with the shoemaker, 
in an old log cabin on the edge of the little settlement. 
He was missing a few days after this, and when he came 
back he had a bench and a sign. He put the one in 
front of his window and nailed the other to the logs by 
the door. Custom came to him by degrees, for Zeb 


104 THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


was a good workman, and if he had only kept at it he 
might have made the old shoemaker rue the day when 
he was allowed to set up in opposition, but for some 
reason he always grew restless as spring came on and 
wanted to go back to the farm. Whether it was some 
farming instinct stirring within him, or a distaste for his 
trade, or just a human longing to be with his kind, it 
would be hard to say ; but something led him when the fit 
was on to throw down his apron and stride over the 
country looking for work. 

Mr. Freno had taken him one summer, and finding 
him a valuable man had kept him a year — in fact until 
the threshers demanded his discharge. This had been 
a happy time for Zeb. Mrs. Freno was kind, if sharp- 
tongued, and he had won the mother’s heart by his de- 
votion to her baby. He was Ma’-’Liza’s abject slave, 
and that young lady rewarded his fealty by showering 
upon him the wealth of her affections. There is nothing 
like a child’s love to thaw out the frozen recesses of a 
human heart. In its warm sunshine Zeb grew almost 
like other men. Then came the threshers, the discharge, 
and the shoemaker’s bench again. 

And this is literally all that was known of Zeb Horn. 

When Mrs. Freno reached the little cabin, bundle in 
hand, the two men had just finished their work. All 
that was mortal of Zeb Horn lay on two boards sup- 
ported by chairs. Mr. Freno stepped aside for his wife, 
who, after one astonished glance, turned to her husband. 

''Where did you get them clothes?” For the dead 
man was clad in a full suit of blue serge, which to Mrs. 
Freno’s uncritical eye seemed fresh from the tailor’s. 

" That young man that’s sick up at Dr. Dabney’s sent 
’em over by Sandy. He must have heard about it from 
Druse, I reckon.” 

“H-m! Necktie and collar and all ! Druse says he’s 
a awful kind-hearted young man. He’s the one that’s 


ZEB HORN 


105 


been learnin’ Sandy. I’m so glad he sent ’em. They 
certainly do become Zeb ! ” 

She stood a moment looking down at the still form. 
The shifting, restless eyes were quiet now under closed 
lids, the shambling figure was straight for once, and 
over all lay the dignity of death. 

“ Pore Zeb ! ” she said, softly. Pore Zeb ! He’ll 
never have to worry now about what people think and 
do and say. He’s gone before his judge, Mr. Tolies, 
and I reckon He knows how to make allowances a heap 
better than we do.” 

She covered the silent figure with the sheet taken from 
her bundle, and turned briskly to her husband. 

“ Now, Ad’niram,” — in her sharp, everyday tone — 
you and Mr. Tolies had best get that bed down out 
of the way before anybody gets here. Bud’s cornin’ 
with a couple of boxes and some boards presently and 
we can put ’em around for seats after I’ve got swep’ up. 
Thar’ll be a whole passel er folks here directly and no 
place to seat ’em.” 

The result justified the prophecy. By the time these 
arrangements were completed and the room in all its 
bareness was clean the first visitors appeared. Mrs. 
Freno, feeling it incumbent upon somebody to do the 
honours, advanced to meet them. 

“ Howdy, Mrs. Oxley,” she said. ‘‘ Howdy, Mandy. 
Howdy, Sis. Come right in and take seats. We haven’t 
got any cheers to offer, but we’ve done the best we can 
with the boards. Take off your bonnets.” 

“ I ain’t got long to stay,” replied Mrs. Oxley, taking 
off her gingham sunbonnet and settling herself for the 
afternoon. “ I jes’ come in to look at the corpse and 
hear about the buryin’. When is it goin’ to be ? ” 

“ To-morrow. Ad’niram was jes’ sayin’ — Howdy, Mrs. 
Ham. Howdy, Bub — set down thar by yo’ maw. I was 
jes’ sayin’, Mrs. Ham, that Ad’niram says Dr. Dabney 
was here jes’ befo’ I come and — walk right in, Mr. 


106 THE MASTER OF «THE OAKS” 


Jimmery, and you too, Miss Ann. Why, you’ve had a 
right smart piece to come this hot day, haven’t you? 
And you ain’t lookin’ very peart. Miss Ann, either.” 

I’m enjoyin’ very pore health this summer,” said 
that lady. She took great comfort in it. 

You certainly are lookin’ bad,” sympathized Mrs. 
Freno. '' Don’t you think she is, Mrs. Ham?” 

She is so/' 

Ef it had a-been me instead of Zeb Horn that was 
took off without any warnin’ I wouldn’t have been a 
bit surprised,” said Miss Ann, gloomily. 

“ Well, I don’t know. Miss Ann,” put in Mrs. Oxley, 
cheerfully. “ I’ve noticed them kind that’s always com- 
plainin’ gen’ally hangs on a long time. Howdy, honey,” 
to a child at the door with another holding to her skirts — 

come on in. Whose little girls are you ? ” 

Mrs. Nicholls’s.” 

‘‘Whar’s yo’ maw? Why didn’t she come?” 

She’s got a so’ th’oat,” said the child. She washed 
her haid, and she taken cold in her tonsilitis. But she 
’lowed she’d be well enough to go to the buryin’ and she 
said for us to come over and find out what time it 
let in.” 

Ten o’clock,” answered Mrs. Freno. *^You see/’ in 
explanation to the others — there’s no friends or any- 
body to wait for. . . . Yes’m. Dr. Dabney has jes’ 
gone from here. He come in to see Zeb on his way 
home, without knowin’ a word about it.” 

“Can we see him?” asked the child of Mrs. Ham, 
looking half-fearfully at the sheeted figure. 

Mrs. Freno rose. 

She had been first on the ground and she felt secretly 
that the matter of Ma’-’Liza’s instincts made it emi- 
nently proper that she should be the one to “ show the 
corpse.” 

“ Come right along. Sis,” she said, briskly, laying 
back the sheet. “ Mrs. Oxley, jes’ step thar to the do’, 


ZEB HORN 107 

and call the men in whilst Tve got the sheet off, will 
you ? 

And they all filed in and took turns looking into the 
face, still in death, that they had avoided in life. 

'' He looks right natch’ul,” commented Mrs. Ham, in 
the stereotyped phrase of the occasion. 

‘‘ But seems like he's mighty pore," added Mrs. Oxley. 

Whar do you s’pose he got them clothes ? " whispered 
Mandy Oxley to another girl. 

“ That man was the best hand I ever had," said Mr. 
Cartwright to Mr. Freno. A belated feeling of regret 
at having turned him off had brought him down here. 

Yes, sir, he was so." 

I believe you," replied Mr. Freno, turning away and 
stepping decently to the door to shoot a stream of to- 
bacco juice from his mouth. He was the trustiest man 
about stock I ever saw." 

Then the two men looked each other in the face and 
turned away rather confusedly. They had both dis- 
charged Zeb Horn without giving him a reason 
for it. 

Old Mrs. Gee lingered about the rude bier. He's 
jest about the age my Willie would be," she said to Mrs. 
Freno. Willie had died in early childhood, but memory 
has a way of tugging at withered heart-strings at times 
like this to see if there is any life in them. I wonder 
if he's got any mother." 

He don't look to me like a bad man," said her daugh- 
ter-in-law, Mrs. Sam Gee, studying attentively the mo- 
tionless face. I wonder what it was he done ! " 

“ Well, whatever he done," said the widow Morris, 

he was mighty kind in sickness. I don't know how I 
would a-got along when my Caleb had inflammatory 
rheumatiz ef it hadn't been for Zeb Horn. He was the 
patientest creetur! Cale would ruther have him set up 
with him than any of the other neighbours. I 'lowed 
to Cale cornin' over here that the Lord wouldn’t forgit 


108 THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


them nights when Zeb Horn come to stand in the 
jedgment.” 

Well, Mrs. Morris, I don’t see how you can hope 
so,” said Mrs. Ham, severely. “Zeb Horn wan’t a 
perfessor and he wan’t even a church-goin’ man, so fur 
as I know. He certainly didn’t consort with the Bab- 
tis’es. But I’ve sometimes thought, Mrs. Morris, that 
you yourself ain’t never had a realizin’ sense of the 
danger of not cornin’ right out and out and bein’ a per- 
fessor.” 

“ Maybe I ain’t, Mrs. Ham,” admitted Mrs. Morris, 
meekly. “ I reckon you’re right. But I’ve got a realizin’ 
sense of how hard Cale was to take keer of, and some 
nights when I was jest about wore out, and Zeb Horn 
would come in and take the burden of it on hisself, I 
’most felt that he was a possessor ef he wan’t a per- 
fessor.” 

“ I don’t see how you can talk so ! ” said Mrs. Ham. 
“ I’d be afraid to! ” 

“ Maw,” whispered Pink Oxley, “ what’s a perfessor ? 
Is it a good man ? ” 

“ No, it’s — why, yes, of course — it’s a — go on out in 
the yard, Pink , — this ain’t no place for chil’en I ” 

“ I s’pose from what Dr. Dabney said he’s goin’ to 
make a warnin’ of him,” pursued Mrs. Ham. 

“ He is I Did he say so ? ” demanded Mrs. Freno. 

“ I don’t know as he exactly said so, but we drawed the 
inf’rence from what passed that he was goin’ to, me and 
Mr. Ham did. We met him jest as he was goin’ away 
from here, and I asked him right out ef he was going 
to allow him to be buried from his church. He said 
that he would be buried from the cabin here and he 
’lowed that all he had to say he would say at the grave. 
He talked so kinder stern like that I s’picioned at onct 
what he was goin’ to do. And it’s right that he should,” 
firmly, “ it ain’t often a preacher gets a chance to make 
a warnin’ of a man, for ’most everybody’s got some 



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ZEB HORN 


109 


friends that has feelings to be respected. Thar was old 
man Kiel — a meaner man never drawed breath — but 
thar set Mrs. Kiel, a good woman and a long-sufferin’ 
one — and the girls. And what could the preacher do 
at makin’ a warnin’ of him? He didn’t have no chance 
at him at all! But with Zeb Horn — ^yes, I think it’s 
right 1 ” 

“ Well, I don’t know,” said Mr. Freno, who was sit- 
ting in the door whittling. “ It seems like takin’ a sorter 
mean advantage of a man to make a warnin’ of him 
when he’s dead and can’t talk back, don’t it, now ? ” 
This was addressed to Mr. Cartwright. 

Does so I ” said Mr. Cartwright, emphatically, with 
a man’s sense of justice. ‘‘ It does so ! ” 

I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Ham, firmly. He 
ain’t got any friends, and — why, honey, whar did you 
come from? ” she broke off abruptly to say to Ma’-’Liza, 
who at this moment appeared in the doorway, her hands 
full of pink and blue larkspur. 

Ma’-’Liza gave one look into her face, but deigned no 
reply. Truly, “ chil’n has instincts.” She walked 
straight across the room to her mother. I binged some 
f’owers to Zebbie,” she said. 

The afternoon wore away, but the guests lingered. 
Not for many a long day had the “ creekites ” had such 
a social gathering. The men lounged around the yard 
and chewed and talked crops and politics, and the women 
gossiped inside. And in the midst of it all lay the silent 
man who had so lacked companionship in life ! 

Early the next morning the people from the creek 
began to arrive, and by nine o’clock the fence was lined 
with horses. The rumour had got around that Dr. Dab- 
ney was going to make a “ warnin’ ” of Zeb Horn, and 
it seemed that everybody wanted to be warned. 

At ten o’clock the pine coffin was brought out and 
put in Mr. Freno’s wagon. Dr. Dabney followed in his 


110 THE MASTER OF ‘‘THE OAKS 


buggy alone, and Mr. Cartwright's surrey, with its two 
sleek mules, came next, by virtue of its being the only 
carriage in attendance. The wagons, well filled, fol- 
lowed ; and men and women on horseback with the usual 
quota of colts, followed. They all dismounted at the 
cemetery gate, — only Mr. Freno's wagon going inside. 

By the side of the fence was a luxuriant growth of 
alder, whose white blossoms caught Ma’-’Liza’s eye. Her 
mother broke otf a branch for her and another for Her- 
self. Then, of course, every other woman had to do 
the same for her child and herself. 

The grave was in a lonely part of the graveyard, away 
from all the others. They formed silently around it. 
Mr. Freno unfastened the leather lines from his harness 
and slipped them under the ends of the coffin; and four 
men lifted and lowered it into the grave. Then they 
looked at Dr. Dabney and waited. He motioned them 
to go on. When the mound was rounded and patted 
down with their spades they took off their hats, looked 
at Dr. Dabney again, — and waited. 

The old minister took a step nearer the grave. 

“ My friends," he said, “ we have come to-day to do 
the last kind offices for our departed brother. We have 
consigned his body to the grave, and it remains for me 
but to deliver to you his dying message." 

There was a moment of absolute stillness. Then those 
on the outskirts pressed a little nearer, — all except a pale 
young man with a cap pulled over his face, who sat 
down on a sunken tomb and stretched out his leg as if 
to rest it. Nobody noticed him, for every eye was bent 
on Dr. Dabney. 

The time for the “ warnin’ " had come. 

“ I was with him," he continued, “ a few days before 
his death. He was fully conscious and talked to me 
freely. He knew his end was near and he was willing 
to go. I think life had been a hard struggle for him and 
he was glad to give it up. It is a pitiful thing, brethren, 


ZEB HORN 


111 


that this should be so ! . . . He had no reproaches for 
anybody. He said when he told me the story, ‘ Tell them 
all I don’t blame anybody. They didn’t know. If they 
had known they would have felt differently. I’m sure 
they would.’ And he asked me to tell you to-day fhe 
story that he never had a chance to tell.” 

They listened breathlessly. At last they would know 
what Zeb Horn had done ! 

“ Zebadiah Horn,” began the minister, “ was born in 
Gasconade County thirty-seven years ago. His father 
died when he was a boy of sixteen, leaving his mother 
to his care. They lived together on a farm near Frank- 
lin, and made a living by hard work. In course of time 
he was married. He didn’t say much about his wife, 
but he talked freely about his mother, and I judge that 
they were more to each other than most mothers and 
sons. He said, ^ I always knew I could count on mother.’ 

One day when his child was about a year old he 
went to town. He had some words on the street, he 
said, with a man who had traded a horse to him. One 
thing led to another till their blood was up, and a crowd 
had gathered around them. Then the man coupled the 
name of Horn’s wife with that of a profligate man of the 
town, and Zeb struck him down. . . . 

Brethren, — he never rose again ! ” 

The old minister paused, and the men looked at each 
other. This then was Zeb Horn’s crime ! 

I do not palliate this man’s sin.” The minister’s 
tone changed swiftly from that of the narrator to the 
stern accents of the preacher of righteousness. 

'' To give life or to take it is the prerogative of 
Almighty God. ' Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith 
the Lord.’ . . . ‘ Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by 

man shall his blood be shed.’ ... We cannot escape 
God’s law. This man sinned; but he paid the penalty. 
Not the blood of his veins, but the blood of his man- 
hood! . . .. But I charge you to remember, brethren, 


lU THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


that God looks on the heart — not the result. And I call 
upon you this day — you who have ever in a moment of 
passion struck down a fellow-man — to raise, if you can, 
clean hands to heaven, and say : ‘ I am guiltless of Zeb 
Horn’s sin.’” 

He looked around him fearlessly as if expecting a 
reply. None came. This was not a long-suffering 
people. Many a man among them had been wont to 
boast that with him it was “ a word and a blow and the 
blow came first ” ; many a man among them thought of 
the time when he had “ laid out his man.” But his 
man had risen again. Zeb’s had not. That was all the 
difference. 

To go on ” — the voice sank to its usual mild cadence 
— “ he was arrested, tried, convicted of manslaughter, and 
sentenced to the penitentiary for ten years. He was 
taken to Jefferson City immediately. He had little to 
say of his prison life, except that they were kind to 
him, and that he learned the shoemaker’s trade.” 

The shoemaker and the man across from him ex- 
changed significant glances. It was true, then, as they 
had supposed. 

He was discharged on three- fourths’ time, making 
his term seven and a half years. During the first year 
he heard from his wife twice. Then the letters ceased. 
His mother could not write, and his wife did not. Just 
before his time expired there came to him a pair of 
cotton socks, home-knit. They were from his mother; 
he said he knew the knitting. He took them from under 
his pillow and showed them to me. He wanted to be 
buried in them.” 

“ He was,” said Mr. Freno, with uncovered head. 
‘‘We put them on him without knowing anything about 
it.” 

Dr. Dabney bowed. Nobody felt it to be an inter- 
ruption. 

“ He told me,” continued the minister, “ something of 


ZEB HORN 


113 


how he felt when his term expired. There had been 
ample opportunity for him to think, and he had planned 
out his future life. He would go back to his old home 
— among his old neighbours; they had known of his 
previous life and they would help him to begin again. 
He made up his mind, he said, to talk freely to them 
about it, not to evade the subject at all, and then to live 
such a life of self-sacrifice and helpfulness to others as 
would partially atone for his sin. He knew he could 
never outlive the shame of having been a convict, but 
he would bear that as a part of his punishment, and 
by his devotion to his family he would try to make up 
to them for the loss of son and husband and father all 
these years. 

‘‘ Brethren, this is what he hoped to do. Let me tell 
you how it ended. On the train he met a man from 
Gasconade who had once lived in Franklin. Horn made 
himself known to him and asked for news of his family. 
The man looked at him in amazement. Finally he told 
him all. His wife had gone oif with another man six 
months after he went to the penitentiary, taking the 
child with her. They had never been heard of since. 
The man was the one her name had been coupled with. 
It was true, after all! 

“ Zeb said he thought he must have been dazed by 
what he had heard, for when the man left him he sat 
there trying to think what he would do now, and he 
could not seem to think clearly of anything. After a 
while the conductor came to him and asked him if his 
ticket hadn’t been for Franklin. 

He told him it was and he found he had gone 
several miles beyond, but the conductor slowed up and 
let him off. He said he sat down by the track and 
wondered if it wouldn’t have been better for him to 
have gone on, after all. But he thought of his mother 
and got up and started across the country to his home. 

“ Brethren, when he reached the house the windows 


114s THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


were boarded up. He said something told him where 
he would find her; and he went straight to the grave- 
yard. There, sure enough, was a new-made grave by 
the side of his father’s. He stumbled on to a neighbour’s 
and they told him she had died a few weeks before. 
The place had passed out of her hands, but she had 
been allowed to live there. 

He stayed only a few days in Franklin. There was 
no reason for his remaining there now, and somehow 
it did not seem possible to talk freely with his neigh- 
bours. They gave him no chance to do it. He de- 
termined to go away — as far as his small supply of 
money would carry him, — where nobody knew his past 
history — and begin again. 

His money carried him only to Saline County, where 
he got work with a shoemaker. He stayed there nearly 
a year. One day a man came in to have some work 
done and Zeb recognized him as a fellow-convict who 
had served out his term. The next day his employer 
discharged him. He had nothing against him, he said, 
but he could not have an ex-convict in his shop. 

“ He went across the river into Charitan County. 
He determined not to try shoemaking again, but to go 
on a farm where he would be more away from every- 
body. It was in the busy season and he easily got work. 
He said he liked farm work better than his trade, for 
it seemed more like his old life, and as the summer 
passed he began to feel that he was secure. One day, 
late in the fall, he went to the county fair. A man who 
had been a guard at the prison pointed him out as an 
ex-convict — not with any intention of injuring him, prob- 
ably, but with a fool’s inability to hold his tongue. It 
got around and he was discharged. 

“ He tramped his way into this county and finally 
into this neighbourhood. You know his history since 
he has been here. He has never been able to keep a 
place and — so far as I can learn — has never had a com- 


ZEB HORN 


115 


plaint made against him. I have heard many of you 
talk about him in the last twenty-four hours, and this 
is what you make him out : a faithful, capable workman ; 
industrious, honest, reliable in all things ; gentle to women 
and little children; kind to dumb animals; untiring in 
self-sacrifice for the sick and helpless. In addition, I 
know him to have been a God-fearing, repentant 
man. 

It was not much he asked of this community, — only 
the right to live by honest, hard work, and a little — a 
very little — human companionship. We denied him both ! 
We saw a struggling soul go down in dumb agony and 
we did not lift a hand to save him. A friendly greeting, 
a hearty handshake, a word of neighbourly interest, 
would have been to this man as cold water in a thirsty 
land. But we did not give them. He asked us for 
bread and we gave him a stone. 

I asked him if he was afraid to die. No, he said, 
he did not believe God would be as hard on him as his 
fellow-men had been. I think he was right. He said, 
‘ If there had only been somebody that I could have told 
it would have been different — but there wasn’t anybody.’ 
It was the pitiful cry two thousand years old — ‘ I looked 
on my right hand, and beheld, but there was no man that 
would know me; refuge failed me; no man cared for 
my soul.’ . . . Oh, brethren, brethren, — may God for- 
give us ! ” 

The old minister had been speaking in an impassioned 
tone. He stopped suddenly. Then, there being nothing 
more to say, he raised his hands in benediction, repeating 
with gentle emphasis which might have passed for irony 
but was probably only force of habit: 

• ‘ And now may the peace of God, that passeth all 
understanding, keep your hearts and minds, through 
Christ Jesus, our Lord. Amen.” 

Ma’-’Liza had been playing beside the grave, sticking 
her alder bush into the soft mould and pulling it out 


116 THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


again to find a better place. As she felt the tug of her 
mother’s hand she stuck it in firmly and said — ^her sweet, 
childish treble smiting the stillness — I gived my Towers 
to Zebbie ! ” 

Mrs. Freno caught her to her breast with a sob, and 
laid her branch beside it. The act was infectious. As 
by one impulse the women came and cast their flowers 
upon the mound, with gentle hands and falling tears. 
And when the procession moved from the cemetery Zeb 
Horn’s grave was a mass of snowy, fragrant blossoms. 

But the man was dead ! 

As Dr. Dabney moved toward the gate (he had been 
delayed by one and another coming up to explain shame- 
facedly his particular attitude toward the dead man) 
he was not a little surprised to come upon Archer 
McLain. He had not seen him at the grave and was 
unaware of his presence. The young man’s face was 
grey and haggard. 

Dr. Dabney,” he said in a low tone ; ‘‘ would you 
mind my riding back with you? There’s a matter I — 
want to talk with you about. Sandy will take my horse 
home.” 

“ I should be glad to have you ride with me,” said the 
clergyman with his unfailing courtesy, but — I find 
myself somewhat shaken by what we have just passed 
through. I am afraid my judgment might not be at its 
best about a temporal matter.” He supposed mistakenly 
that it was about the old Bascom place the young man 
wished to speak. “ It seems to me — ah-h — ! my boy, 
it seems to me just now that there’s only one subject 
worth conversing upon, and that is — eternity.” 

Then, noting the tense look still in the eyes looking 
into his, he asked quickly, and with great gentleness : 

“Is it about your soul’s salvation, my son, that you 
would speak with me?” 

“No,” said McLain. 


ZEB HORN 117 

“ Then I will ask you to defer it till another day, if 
you will. You will not misunderstand? ’’ 

For answer, McLain wrung his hand. As he turned 
away the set lines about his mouth relaxed. He felt like 
a man that had had a reprieve. 


IX 


COLONEL JUDD 

yr cLAIN, what is the matter with you? ” 

\/l The physician and his patient sat together 
-L ▼ A on the Dabney porch. It was two weeks or 
more after Zeb Horn’s burial, and in that fortnight Dr. 
Llewellyn had made a number of visits to The Manse 
on one pretext or another. Very disconcerting reports 
had come to him about the young man. While improv- 
ing in health he had fallen into a state of despondency 
which was most alarming to one experienced in both 
physical and mental maladies. 

“ If only he were not gaining physically it would be 
less serious,” the doctor said to Dr. Dabney, to that 
gentleman’s mystification. “ But to be gaining in flesh 
and strength and then have this mental depression come 
upon him — it’s bad! bad! . . . Does he seem like 
himself when he comes out of these moody fits?” 

“ Entirely. He is always the same genial, courteous 
gentleman he has been from the first, — considerate and 
thoughtful of every one.” 

Hasn’t taken a dislike to anybody ? ” 

No. Not that I know of.” Then after a moment 
of thought, “ My sister thinks there is a little disposition 
on his part to shun Genevieve — hardly perceptible — and 
still she has perceived it.” 

“ Has Jean? ” 

I believe so, though she hasn’t spoken of it to me. 
I do not know that I should say shun exactly either. It 
is more that he seems to wish to be alone, and does not 
call for the reading, which for a time he seemed to 
118 


COLONEL JUDD 


119 


enjoy very much. He reads more to himself, though 
— desiring to be strictly truthful — “ I often notice that he 
isn’t reading when he has a book.” 

“ I see,” said the doctor, repressing a smile. He was 
younger than Dr. Dabney by a good many years. I 
think I shall stay over with you a day or two, doctor, 
and study up this case at closer range. I’ve come down 
here to see Pattie Dandridge, and I should have to come 
back to-morrow anyway.” 

‘^How is she?” 

Quite sick. I really shall be glad to be near her for 
a day or two.” 

He had the young man under close surveillance during 
the evening, but he saw no signs of depression. On the 
contrary, he was the life of the company. But the next 
afternoon the two happened to be left to themselves. 
McLain sat in his usual place on the steps and Dr. 
Llewellyn on the porch a little above him. 

Under cover of a newspaper the doctor had been 
studying the face before him for twenty minutes, and 
that under the most favourable circumstances, for sup- 
posing that he was unobserved the man had relaxed and 
the mask had dropped from the handsome, mocking face 
and left the mouth set and the eyes perplexed. Be- 
tween the brows the two vertical lines drew together in 
a frown. But at the physician’s question the mask 
slipped into place again and the eyes that looked up 
at him were as frank as a boy’s. 

“Nothing. Why? Don’t you think I am getting 
along all right ? ” 

“ Your leg is getting along all right — yes.” 

“Well?” M.cLain threw out the word defiantly. 

“ Never try to fool your doctor, my boy! A man can 
deceive his acquaintances often; his spiritual adviser 
usually ; his wife most of the time ; but his doctor — well, 
he’d better look out for his doctor! . . . I’ve been 
studying you for two days, McLain. There is something 


120 THE MASTER OF ‘‘THE OAKS” 


on your mind that you ought to get rid of. It’s hinder- 
ing your recovery.” 

'' Don’t I seem to be progressing fairly well ? ” 

“ Yes. You seem to be, but you are not. Your bones 
are knitting; that gash on your head is healing beauti- 
fully.” He touched the place as he spoke with a critical 
finger. I flatter myself I did a good job with that — 
but ” — he looked straight into the eyes which did not 
evade his — there is something behind that gash that I 
haven’t got at yet. Tell me about it, boy.” 

McLain shook his head. ‘‘Your imagination, doc- 
tor.” 

“ The noblest and most useful function of the imagi- 
nation,” declared Dr. Llewellyn, didactically, “ is not to 
create but to discern, — ^to enter so fully into the life of 
another as to be able to put one’s self in that other’s place 
and see things as he sees them — to feel things as he feels 
them.” 

The physician’s clear-seeing eyes were so kind, so full 
of the very sympathy he was defining under another 
name that the younger man had an almost overpowering 
impulse to throw himself upon that sympathy and tell 
him all. The Protestant faith in which he had been 
reared seemed all at once inadequate. If only he could 
go to some good man — not necessarily nor preferably a 
priest — under seal of the confessional and tell him all ! 
He did not care so much about absolution. What he 
wanted, and wanted desperately, was to lay the burden 
of a secret upon another — for a day, an hour — until he 
could get his bearings — could see his way — could 
traighten his back for the load if he found it must be 
vrried. But, with this thought stinging in his mind, 
lat he said, with a touch of bitterness, was : 

‘ A rare gift — is imagination of that kind ! ” 

That’s the hidden wound giving him a twinge,” 
l^ht the doctor, and he was not deceived though 
‘ asurably surprised when McLain added carelessly, 


COLONEL JUDD 


m 

** You are all off, doctor. The thing that is troubling me 
is a business matter. I am thinking of buying the old 
Bascom place, and I am not quite sure whether I ought 
to do it.’’ 

“ The old Bascom place ! You ! ” The doctor began 
to lose faith in his own diagnosis. This surely was a 
malady of the mind, after all, not of the soul or the body. 

What would you do with the old Bascom place ? ” 
Farm it.” 

Have you ever farmed ? ” 

Never.” 

“Do you know anything about farming?” 

“Not a thing — except theoretically.” 

“Well, what has put this notion in your head then?” 

McLain reflected a moment before replying. His pur- 
pose to buy the farm could hardly be said to be a settled 
one, but the feeling had been growing within him for 
weeks that he should like to cast in his lot with such 
people as these. He had been a wanderer for years; 
he had begun to take root here, and the thought of 
tearing up now and having to adjust himself to new 
surroundings seemed for some reason intolerable to him. 
Why shouldn’t he settle it all by deciding upon farming 
as an occupation and this neighbourhood as an abiding 
place? It occurred to him now that he would be glad 
to have the opinion of a level-headed, practical man like 
Dr. Llewellyn about it. 

“ Doctor, I am in earnest about this thing, and I want 
some advice. I have a serious idea of going into farm- 
ing. You see, it is this way with me. I have never 
prepared myself for a profession. I had expected to 
study law, but ” — his voice grew hard — “ I was cheated 
out of that. However, that’s a long story and it isn’t 
necessary to go into it. I have travelled a good deal 
in this country and abroad, but I am tired of that now 
and ready to settle down. I really was on my way to 
the growing country of Saskatchewan when that wreck 


122 THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


left me stranded here. They say there are great oppor- 
tunities up there.” 

“ Saskatchewan ? Where is that ? ” 

‘‘ In Canada. I suppose I could do better there per- 
haps, but after all I don’t know that I want to expatriate 
myself. I have been thinking a good deal about it since 
Fve been here, especially lately. I never had thought I 
should particularly care for a farming life — it had never 
fallen under my observation — but somehow my ideas 
have changed since I have been in this community. It 
seems to me a farmer’s life is a very independent one, 
and I don’t see why it should not be made a remunerative 
one. 

It is fairly so — if one knows how.” 

“ Well, — it isn’t one of the occult sciences, is it — ■ 
known only to the few ? I am young. Couldn’t I 
learn?” 

“ Undoubtedly, — if you have some money to waste on 
learning and experimenting.” 

“ I have.” 

“ And you are sure of your own determination ? ” 

“ I think I am.” 

“ Then I don’t see why you should not succeed in 
this business — for it is a business just as any other is, 
and one must understand it to be successful in it. You 
know the common idea among town people is that any 
fool can farm.” 

“ Well — I’ve been several kinds of fool in my time,” 
murmured McLain. ‘‘ Perhaps that might help.” 

“ Why don’t you rent until you know whether or not 
you will like it ? ” 

‘‘They won’t rent the Bascom place.” 

“ The Bascom place is not the only farm in this State, 
nor in this county.” 

“ No-o. But for certain reasons I should prefer to be 
in this neighbourhood.” 

“ I see,” said Dr. Llewellyn, who thought he could 


COLONEL JUDD 


12S 


see very clearly. Well — the Bascom farm is a good 
one, and the business is not hard to learn, I should say. 
Of course to a man that has travelled a good deal, as I 
know you have, the life might seem a little monotonous 
at first. But — she’s worth it ! ” 

McLain laughed. “ I haven’t got her yet. Maybe I 
shan’t want to buy the Bascom place after all.” 

After a few minutes of good-natured chaffing back and 
forth Dr. Llewellyn said seriously, “ You wouldn’t 
think of buying without looking the place over, would 
you?” ’ 

“ Oh, certainly not.” 

I didn’t know. You never can tell what these half- 
baked young farmers are going to do.” 

“ I am expecting you to take me over there to see 
it,” said McLain. “ Will you? ” 

“ Yes, I will — and I will do more. I will take you 
over to see the old Colonel who lives on the place just 
beyond. He is one of the best farmers around here, 
though he calls himself a back 'number, and he knows the 
Bascom farm as he does his own. Whatever Colonel 
Judd tells you you may rely upon.” 

Thank you. I should have to rely upon somebody’s 
opinion besides my own, certainly.” In his mind was 
running a dismayed undercurrent of “ Judd ! . . . 

Judd! ” 

What he said was, indifferently, Who is this Colonel 
Judd? Have I ever seen him?” 

'' I imagine not. He doesn’t go about much. He is 
getting old.” 

^‘Has he sons?” 

‘‘ He lost a son a few years ago. The only one ” 

He was going to say, The only one that is any com- 
fort to him,” but remembering that the two men might 
soon become neighbours he thought better of it and let 
the sentence remain unfinished. ''No use going into 
that,” he thought. Now an unfinished sentence is a sin- 


IM THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 


ister thing; often a phrase or a clause has all the force 
of an unequivocal statement. It had in this case. 

“ How long since his son died ? McLain was sitting 
up, every muscle tense. 

“ Five years this summer. But the old Colonel has 
never got over his death. A fine man Luther Judd was 
too. He was a loss to this community.” 

McLain dropped back into his former lounging atti- 
tude. 

“ Yes, I should like very much to go over and see 
Colonel Judd. Will this afternoon suit you?” 

Colonel Judd was a gentleman of the old school, that 
blanket phrase which means much or little, according to 
the standards of the user and the opportunities of the 
listener for having met gentlemen of the old school out- 
side of stories. He still supped his mint julep on the 
porch in summer and dozed in his chair while a little 
negro kept off the droning flies with a long brush 
fashioned from a peacock’s tail. At Christmas he always 
had a great bowl of egg-nog made, ready for any chance 
guest, as his forefathers in the Old Dominion had done. 
But the guests never came. His neighbours, though 
most of them like himself were from Virginia or Vir- 
ginia once removed, were of a younger generation than 
the Colonel, and had eschewed this Christmas custom 
of their fathers, esteeming it one more honoured in 
the breach than the observance. Besides which they were 
all busy with their own concerns on Christmas Day and 
had no time to spend on an old man and his whim that 
old customs should be kept up. 

Only Dr. Dabney could be depended upon to come, 
and Dr. Dabney, though strictly temperate and with a 
constitutional loathing for liquor, always after one glance 
at the full bowl and the eager old face, held out his hand 
for the proffered glass and sipped the froth, descanting 
on the skill that compounded the mixture, but protesting 


COLONEL JUDD 


125 


that his poor head would not allow him to do justice 
to it, and gently turning conversation into other channels, 
under cover of which, and the Colonel’s dimming eyes, 
the glass could be set down before the danger point was 
reached. Then when the day wore on and there were 
no more guests, the bowl would be sent to the kitchen 
out in the yard, where it never suffered slight, for his 
man Job had Christmas visitors if the Colonel did not. 
And when it was gone, the Colonel would draw his long 
dressing gown around him and sit before the fire, shaking 
his head sorrowfully as he contrasted the present with a 
by-gone age. 

In truth. Colonel Judd was a very lonely old man. 
The death of his son Luther, who was unmarried and 
had always lived with his father, was an irreparable 
loss to him at his advanced age. There was another 
son, Calvin, — the one of whom Dr. Llewellyn had started 
to speak — but he had left home eighteen or twenty years 
ago and had never been back. He had almost dropped 
out of the minds of the community. There was an un- 
spoken hope in the old man’s heart that when the boy 
heard of his brother’s death and knew that he, the 
father, would be left alone in the old home he would 
come back, but if there was such an expectation it was 
without fulfilment. The months and the years went by 
and nothing came from the land beyond the mountains. 
Not even to Dr. Dabney did he ever speak his son’s 
name now. 

The minister had gone over one day after Luther’s 
death and found him reading Shakespeare. ‘‘ A wonder- 
ful man, parson,” he said, tapping his book as he laid 
it aside. '' A wonderful man ! He knew the human 
heart as well as your man Solomon.” 

He stepped to the back porch to call for a mint julep, 
and the doctor turned to the volume laid face downward. 
It was ‘‘ King Lear,” and a marked passage caught his 
eye: 


126 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


“ How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is 
To have a thankless child.” 

The Colonel was sitting on the porch ruminating when 
Dr. Llewellyn and McLain drove up that afternoon. His 
gratification at their visit was touchingly evident, par- 
ticularly when its object was made known. 

“ The Bascom place ? '' he repeated. “ Do I know the 
Bascom place ? Why, my dear sir, we laid oif our farms 
together. Major Bascom and I. I know the farm every 
inch of it as I know my own. We lived side by side 
all our lives; we brought our wives to our new homes; 
we reared our children ” — there was a break in his voice 
— “ we reared our children together ; we set out our 
orchards the same year and the shade trees you see 
around us. Ah! those were the days when our blood 
ran fast and life was worth the living! . . . But times 
are changed — Major Bascom is gone — and you see in 
me, Mr. McLain, an old man who has lived out more 
than his time and is fit only to dwell upon the memories 
of other days and watch his shadow as it lengthens down 
the slope.” 

He said it so mournfully that McLain felt a great pity 
for him. This was the tragedy of age. 

“ This is not what Dr. Llewellyn tells me, sir. He 
assures me that your judgment about this farm will be 
worth more to me than any man’s around here.” 

“ Ah ! William knows better than that. It might have 
been once, but not now. I am a broken old man, Mr. 
jMcLain, — a broken, childless old man ! ” 

He turned then to Dr. Llewellyn, his strong features 
working painfully: 

“ I have no son, William ! . . . No son ! ” 

Dr. Llewellyn moved his head in sorrowful protest 
but made no reply; and McLain, deeply stirred by the 
old man’s emotion, bent forward and said with greatest 
gentleness : 

I trust, sir, that when I am your neighbour you 


COLONEL JUDD 127 

will let me come to you for counsel. You are childless 
and I am without father or mother.'’ 

The Colonel reached out his hand and grasped that 
of the young man, wringing it in a silent compact, while 
Dr. Llewellyn nodded approval. 

Colonel Judd insisted upon going over to the Bascom 
place with them, ordering a horse for McLain so that 
together they could ride over the farm. 

“ You can’t examine a farm, William, from a buggy — 
any more than you could a patient,” he said with good- 
natured contempt. 

“ Then since I am so neatly eliminated from this case 
I think I will take myself along home and leave you two 
farmers to get along the best you can without me. 
McLain, you feel equal to riding home, do you ? ” 

“ I feel equal to anything,” the young man answered, 
buoyantly, '' even to getting along without you. I am 
out of your clutches now, doctor, and under the tutelage 
of the Colonel here. ... Yes, Til send the horse back 
by Sandy.” 

Dr. Llewellyn drove off, much pleased at the turn 
affairs had taken. 

“ Two hours’ consultation will make them friends,” he 
thought, “ and it will be, a friendship that will do them 
both good. ... I wonder if this is the thing that 
was troubling McLain. ... It might be. The set- 
tling upon a business and a location in life is quite a 
serious thing. But ” 

It was evident that he did not more than half believd 
it yet. 


X 


THE OLD BASCOM PLACE 

M cLAIN rode back to The Manse in high spirits. 
Things certainly were going his way. He and 
Colonel Judd had gone over the farm thoroughly 
and it seemed to him most promising; though he had to 
acknowledge to himself that his judgment was not 
worth much. But the Colonel’s was, and the Colonel 
had assured him that it was an excellent farm. “ It is 
neglected, but it is good land,” he had said ; and good 
land is like good blood, my boy, — it will tell in the end.” 

Listening to him the young man felt his fighting blood 
rise within him. . . . Was it true that good land and 
good blood would tell? He felt a consuming desire to 
test it. To build up the waste places — to restore that 
which was broken down — surely this was no mean am- 
bition! ... It would be like the work of creation. 

Colonel Judd had been very helpful to him that after- 
noon. He had listened with respectful attention to 
McLain’s plans, commending sometimes, often criticising, 
but evincing a keen interest in it all. It was easy to 
see that the old gentleman found his unexpected role of 
counsellor an agreeable one. Nor was it strange, for 
McLain’s deference and confidence in him was very 
grateful to one who openly proclaimed himself a “ back 
number.” They discussed many things on that ride to 
the farm and over it and back again, and their liking 
for each other increased with every hour. It was long 
since the Colonel had had an afternoon of such unalloyed 
pleasure. 

‘‘ I am most happy to have been able to serve you, my 
128 


THE OLD BASCOM PLACE 


129 


young friend/’ he said when McLain expressed his thanks 
at parting. '' Call on me again. Call on me as often as 
you wish. I am glad still to be of use to somebody.” 

As McLain rode home along the pleasant country road 
the cordiality of these parting words stayed by him like 
a warm afterglow. “ They are a kindly people,” he said 
to himself, “ a simple-hearted, friendly people that it 
would be good to live among. And why not ? ” 

He found his desires and intentions, which had only 
this morning been in a fluid state, rapidly crystallizing. 
. . . ^'Why not?” he asked himself again and again. 
It was his money and his life. There was not one soul 
in all the wide world to question this move ; not a person 
who would care enough to give it a passing thought. . . . 
Oh, yes, there was Judge Haliday, of course, — but the 
time was past, he told himself with a bitter smile, when 
Judge Haliday would again remonstrate with him about 
the spending of money. But this thing that he was en- 
tering upon was far more than the spending of money. 
It was giving final direction to a life. He had been 
buffeted by the winds long enough; he was in no mood 
now for a temporary makeshift. If he bought this 
place it would mean that his lot would be cast in with 
these people permanently. He tried to look at it in a 
dispassionate way. JVas this a fancy that would pall 
upon him as Dr. Llewellyn had suggested? Would he 
grow tired of country life in time and want to go back 
to 

To what? . . . What was there for him to go back 
to? 

He asked the question in bitterest scorn and forced 
himself to answer. 

He was an only child— his sister having died in in- 
fancy. His father was an only child. His mother had 
had one brother who died unmarried. A man so situated 
is necessarily destitute of relatives. 

Friends? . . . He shook his head. No! None that 


130 THE MASTER OF THE OAKS ’’ 


he would care to look up. He had moved away from 
his childhood’s home at a time when life-long friendships 
are made, and had been lost in the ocean of New York’s 
surging humanity. Do people ever make close friend- 
ships in a city? Perhaps so, but he never had. There 
were his college mates — but were they friends? It didn’t 
seem so at this moment. Strange, wasn’t it, how many 
acquaintances a man could have and not one upon whom 
he could put his finger as a real friend! 

There was the city itself ; was that worth while ? . . . 
He shrank from it with repugnance. Where in all the 
world was a solitary man so alone — so utterly alone — as 
in a great city with its roar and ramp, its jostling and 
fierce struggle for place? He might obtain a foothold 
there after years of striving, — but what would it be 
worth when he got it ? . . . 

This sheltered cove, away from the mad current where 
one must sink or swim, suddenly presented itself to 
him as a haven. Here one could easily gain a place in 
the world — and a sick, wild longing for that came over 
him. He had lost his place and he wanted it again — a 
place among men, where he could have his part in the 
life around him, even though it were but the simple, 
homely life of the countryside. — And a home ! How long 
it was since he had had a home! . . . This was what 
he wanted : a place among men ; a home ; a few friends — 
real friends — one did not need many — but his heart 
glowed as he thought of the hours of delightful com- 
panionship he had had in Dr. Dabney’s house; of his 
chance acquaintance with Dr. Llewellyn which had 
ripened so quickly into comradeship; of the seeds of 
friendship sown only a few hours ago and germinating 
so rapidly in this receptive soil. It was all so easy and 
possible in a rural neighbourhood. But in a city ! . . . 
No, no! 

His thoughts turned impatiently from the very brick 
and mortar. Here one could strike hands with Nature 


THE OLD BASCOM PLACE 


131 


in an undying compact — but not there! What a sweep 
those grand old oaks had! Such trees as those on the 
Bascom place would confer distinction upon any place, 
however poor the house might be. But the house was 
not poor ; it was only run down like the rest — and good 
building, like good blood, would tell. Colonel Judd’s 
simile stuck like a burr in his memory. 

Already he was planning improvements he could make 
— in the buildings, the orchard, the fields. Ah, what a 
zest it would give to life to see the thing grow under 
his hand! To reconstruct a farm — and a life, he said 
under his breath — for it would mean that. The two 
would grow into fruitfulness together. . . . And then 
when he had proved that he could do it; when he had 
regained a place in the world; when the home and the 
life had been made worthy of her — well, no! not that 
either — no home or life that he could ever offer would 
really be worthy of her, but when they were such as 

he would be willing to otfer 

He drew a long breath then and his very soul quivered. 
Was there a home and a woman like her yet in the world 
for him? 

He turned his horse’s head then toward John Bascom’s. 
At the supper table it was discussed at length. Dr. 
Dabney asking many questions, and Miss Lavinia gently 
reminiscent as to the rose garden. 

How about the house ? ” asked Dr. Dabney. 

“ In wretched condition.” 

It was a well-built house,” he mused. And houses 

are like characters ; if there is anything to build on ” 

It was Colonel Judd’s aphorism in a dififerent garb. 

“ Mr. McLain, is the smoke tree still there ? ” 

“ I didn’t notice it. Miss Lavinia. Would I know it ? ” 
“ Oh, certainly ! Anybody would know a smoke tree. 
It is probably gone.” 

I noticed a very luxuriant rose climbing over the 
piazza.” 


THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


“ A ' Queen of the Prairie ’ ? ” 

“ I couldn’t tell you that, Miss Lavinia. It looked as 
if it ought to be queen of something. And there was a 
white one on the other side.” 

“A ‘Baltimore Belle,’” she said, eagerly. “I gave 
it to Mrs. Bascom myself. But the smoke tree ” 

“ ni look up the smoke tree to-morrow. I’m going 
over to take an inventory. Yes, sir,” in reply to a ques- 
tion from his host, “ I have come to a definite deci- 
sion.” 

He glanced as he spoke from the minister to Jean, and 
the flush he was longing to see was creeping up. 

“ ‘ Yo’ min’, hit’s made up ’ ? ” she quoted, gaily, to 
cover her confusion, for nothing is so vexatious to a 
girl as a tide she cannot control. 

“ ‘ My min’, hit’s made up.’ ” 

“ Mr. McLain,” said the minister, extending his hand 
as they rose, “ I give you most hearty welcome to the 
neighbourhood. I feel that we are to be congratulated 
on this acquisition.” 

“ Thank you, doctor ! ” The red blood rose to the 
young man’s face as he grasped the outstretched hand — 
rose and spread slowly to the very roots of his hair, and 
then receded as slowly, leaving the face strangely pale. 
“ I — I trust it may prove so.” 

“ Well, I congratulate Mr. McLain,” said Jean. “ I 
suppose people always feel so about their homes, but to 
me Tinkling Spring is the dearest, sweetest spot in the 
world, if it is sleepy.” 

“ And to me,” he said, with a look that started the 
red tide on its round again, “ it is where I was brought to 
life again ! ” 

On the porch he told them his plans. Mrs. Debo was 
to go with him as his housekeeper and Sandy as — well, 
as factotum. 

“ I suppose she will feel that I am calling him names 
again if I tell her that,” he said in a quick aside to Jean. 


THE OLD BASCOM PLACE 183 

She may get as much pleasure out of it as she does 
from his being a varlet” 

'' Have you arranged it with her ? ” asked Dr. Dabney. 

“Yes, tentatively. She would be glad to do it. She 
has been buffeted about so long that the thought of a 
settled home with Sandy attracts her.’’ 

“ It will be an excellent arrangement.” 

“ I think so. They can occupy the tenant house and 
live their own independent life while I live mine in the 
larger house. I can conceive ” — he smiled whimsically 
— “ that Mrs. Debo’s personality might become a trifle 
overpowering at close range.” 

“ An excellent plan,” reiterated the minister. 

“ She is devoted to you,” Jean said. “ And 
Sandy ” 

“ Oh, Sandy would run his little legs off for me. I 
know that. You ought to see how big Sandy feels 
at the idea of earning wages. He calls it a salary.” 

“ Are you going to pay Sandy wages for permitting 
you to take care of him ? ” asked Jean, severely. 

“ I certainly am going to pay him wages. As fac- 
totum and varlet both he will earn it.” 

“ This does credit to your heart, Mr. McLain,” said 
Dr. Dabney, “ but really ” 

“ Now, doctor,” McLain remonstrated, “ I don’t often 
have an opportunity to give anybody the unadulterated 
pleasure it is going to be to Sandy to earn wages. I can’t 
deny myself this. I’m a selfish fellow, and I’ve set my 
heart on it.” 

“You are just a great, big-hearted boy!” said Miss 
Lavinia, with unusual perspicacity. “ That’s all you are.” 

“ Don’t call a fellow names when he has a broken leg. 
Miss Lavinia. Even a boy will outgrow that condition 
if you give him time.” 

“You never will!” 

As they went in to prayers McLain said to Jean in a 
low tone: 


134 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


Will you drive me over to the Bascom place to- 
morrow? I want a woman’s opinion about the house. 
. . . Oh, come now ! ” as she hesitated, if you are 
going to be my sister you’ll have to help me out with 
, this thing ! ” 

Jean laughed and consented. 

In the bare, big, old-fashioned sitting-room they stood 
the next day and looked the situation over. 

It suttinly do look mighty obnoxious, marm,” said 
the old negro caretaker in the picturesque phraseology 
of his race where it is uncontaminated by the rinsings 
of “ book-lamin’,” “ but hit’s jes’ lak dey lef’ it, ’scusin’ 
of de furniture.” 

“ It is certainly obnoxious,” laughed Jean, looking at 
the gloomy walls and blackened ceiling ; “ but,” as the 
man shuffled off, “ I can see possibilities in it.” 

What are they, in Heaven’s name? I don’t.” 

“ The case is desperate as it stands — I’ll admit that. 
The paper is atrocious and this graining is monstrous — 
neither fish, flesh, nor fowl — but these are lovely old 
chair boards and panelling — and that fireplace with its 
high mantel — I wouldn’t change those; they give dis- 
tinction to the room.” 

She closed her eyes and he watched her curiously. 

I can see a room — hardwood floor and luxurious 
rugs — walls covered with one of those soft, big-figured 
papers of greys and white that look old-timey and are 
the latest thing — dead white paint, chair-boards and all 
— and mahogany furniture.” 

Like those old pieces you were showing me that 
were your grandfather’s?” he asked, eagerly. 

“Yes. Old mahogany would just suit this room. It 
is hard to get though, now. You can find reproductions, 
of course. And there ought to be bookcases all along 
these walls. Have you any books ? ” 

“ Loads of them.” 


THE OLD BASCOM PLACE 


135 


Where?” 

Boxed up in New York, awaiting my call.” 

“That’s fine! Nothing furnishes a room like books. 
A line of bookcases over there would be great, filled 
with nice, juicy books.” 

He shrugged his shoulders. “ I don’t know about the 
juice. Some of mine are my father’s theological 
books.” 

“ Oh, dreadful ! I know these old theological libraries. 
I’ll have to give you some of Mr. Maltby’s novels.” 

“ Not much, will you ! Well, fortunately my father 
was a man before he was a minister, and a man of 
literary tastes. Then I have my accumulation — and my 
grandfather’s. You are not the only person that has had 
a grandfather ! ” 

“ Why are your books packed up ? ” she asked him, 
suddenly. 

“ Well, naturally I couldn’t cart three generations of 
books around the country. They were to be sent to me 
when I was settled.” 

She nodded and resumed. 

“ Then for a touch of colour with all this white and 
grey, I should have bowls and bowls of yellow datfodils 
on the low bookshelves, or gorgeous red peonies, or 
lilacs, or roses — each in its season, you understand. And 
when they were all gone, even to the chrysanthemums, 
I should have scarlet geraniums in the windows, and a 
glorious open fire in this old fireplace, with a giant back- 
log and plenty of hickory sticks that would send up 
showers of sparks every time you touched them. Then 
you would have colour and glory too.” She stood again 
with closed eyes. “I can just see that room!” 

“And, by Jove!” he cried with kindling enthusiasm, 
“ so can I ! You are a witch ! ” 

Outside they sought diligently for the smoke tree. 

“ Could this be it ? ” he asked, pointing to a cherry 
tree. 


136 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS » 


She rolled her eyes at him. 

‘‘Well! For a farmer !» 

“The bark looks smoky — examining it critically. 
“ I don’t believe you would know a smoke tree yourself. 
Come now I would you ? ” 

“ Let’s go and see the garden,” she evaded. 

The flower garden had been laid off after Martha 
Washington’s, which made its desolation all the more 
striking now. Box is not indigenous to the soil of Mis- 
souri, and that which formed the borders for Mrs. Bas- 
com’s beds had given its owner much travail of soul. 
It was now like the broken down walls of Jerusalem, 
and there had been no Nehemiah to repair the breaches 
thereof. 

“ I should dig it up,” said Jean, decidedly. “ I’d rather 
have an honest plebeian edge of clove pinks than this 
broken down aristocracy. A box hedge in Missouri is 
a sickly sham.” 

“ Up she comes ! ” he cried. “ We’ll have no shams 
in this garden. Now what else?” 

They paced up and down the tangled, grass-grown 
walks, she planning and he, pencil in hand, taking 
notes. 

“ I almost think I would plough up the whole thing,” 
she said at last, “ and start new — except the lilacs and 
snowballs and honeysuckles.” He was looking at her 
with a strange look on his face. “ Now I’ve got it laid 
off. Shall I tell you what to plant ? ” 

“ No I ” he said, with a smile that she did not under- 
stand. “ This garden is my venture. I am going to 
plant in it the things that I want to have grow. And 
ril make them growl ” He clenched his hand. “ You 
see if I don’t I ” 

There was something in his voice that thrilled her, 
though they were speaking of nothing more than a 
garden. 

“When you look like that I almost think you will 


THE OLD BASCOM PLACE 


137 


succeed — even if you don’t know a cherry tree from 
a ” 

“ Come on ! ” he cried, buoyantly. '' Let’s go and 
look for the smoke tree. By George! I’ve got to find 
it or lose out with Miss Lavinia.” 


XI 


AUNT JOSEPHINE APPEARS 


HE Bascom place was bought, and to the amaze- 



ment of the neighbourhood, paid for in cash. 


This at once established McLain’s standing as 
a man of means. His extensive plans for improving 
and stocking his farm confirmed this impression. Tink- 
ling Spring, accustomed to a slow-moving gait and great 
restraint in the matter of improvements, fairly caught 
its breath at the rapidity with which things moved at 
‘‘ The Oaks,” as it was now called. 

McLain had done his deliberating in the days of his 
moody convalescence. Now that the die was cast it was 
the forceful, resolute man of business that stepped to 
the front. He was possessed of a feverish anxiety to 
see the work of reconstruction begun. The old farm 
became a hive of activities. 

'' He’s carryin’ things with a high hand,” remarked 
Ben Tolies. “ He’s layin’ off to put up a ice-house. I 
says to him one day when I was over there, ‘ You won’t 
git your money back on the ice-house. Cap,’ I says^ 
‘ seein’ as you ain’t got no women folks but Drusilla. 
Better let her hang the milk and butter down the well,’ 
I says.” 

“ How did he take it ? ” 

“ Oh, he took it all right. He says, ‘ Why, yes, I 
could do that,’ jes’ like he hadn’t thought of it befo’. 
But I took notice he went on with the ice-house. Waal, 
I only hope his pile will hold out.” 

This voiced the sentiment of Tinkling Spring. It was 
a problem in a neighbourhood which made its money by 


138 


AUNT JOSEPHINE APPEARS 


139 


hard work and spent it cautiously how the man was to 
live until the next year’s crop was in. It was discussed 
freely at Henyon’s, the country store. 

“ Shucks ! ” said Lige Coyt, with a contemptuous, 
asthmatic wheeze. “ What’s croppin’ to a man like him ? 
Like as not he’ll git tired and give it up befo’ next year. 
He don’t know nothin’ ’bout farmin’. And he don’t 
know enough to take the word of a man that does. I’ve 
give him a right smart of advice, knowin’ he was young 
and unexperienced, but ” 

“ Didn’t he thank you for it, Lige ? ” 

‘‘Yes, he thanked me — he’s always polite — ^but Lord! 
he ain’t took it. No, sir! he’s jes’ playin’ at farmin’. 
You know, Mr. Freno, a man can’t farm — not to say 
reely farm now — that eats breakfast after sun-up. Why, 
I’m out ploughin’ befo’ that, ain’t you?” 

'' Yes, sir,” admitted Mr. Freno, “ I am — in ploughin’ 

season. This time of the year ” 

It don’t make no difference ’bout the time of the 
year,” broke in Lige, “ not with a sho’-’nough farmer. 
Why,” — in love with the picture he was drawing of the 
contrast between himself and his indolent neighbour, — 
“ in the winter time at my house we eat breakfast by 
candle light every mornin’ and then have time to set 
around half an hour or mo’ waitin’ for it to git light 
enough to hitch up. Yes, sir! Now that’s my idee of 
management. My women folks grumbles a right smart 
over it, but I tell ’em: . 

** ‘ Early to bed and early to rise, 

Is the way to be healthy and wealthy and wise.’ ” 

Mr. Coyt delivered himself of this apothegm with the 
air of being its author. 

'' Well, Lige,” drawled a young fellow sitting on a nail 
keg and industriously whittling, ‘‘ I don’t see as you’ve 
got any call to be crackin’ up that there rule of life to yo’ 


140 THE MASTER OF THE OAKS ” 


women folks — seein’ as it ain’t made you ary one of the 
three.” 

There was a burst of profane laughter at Mr. Coyt’s 
expense. In a neighbourhood that knew him this was a 
thrust that struck home. 

“ I reckon he don’t ’low to do much of the ploughin’ 
himself,” put in Mr. Freno, in the interests of peace. 

Sorter gentleman farmer, eh ? ” sneered Lige, in 
whose breast the last gibe rankled. Well — he’ll find 
that sort of farmin’ went out here jest after the war — 
went out mighty sudden, too ! ” 

It never come in down in yo’ section, did it, Lige ? ” 
enquired the whittler, innocently. 

Mr. Coyt was from the creek district, which suffered 
no loss from the “ Proclamation.” The men were sitting 
around in various attitudes of expectancy. 

No, sir, it didn’t ! IVe-all had too much sense down 
on Goose Creek ever to put our money in niggers.” 

“ Aw-w ! that was it ! ” His tormentor nodded slowly 
and comprehendingly as one who has found the long 
sought solution to a problem. I see ! ” 

But while giving respectful attention to Mr. Coyt, he 
skilfully achieved a slight muscular contraction of his 
left eyelids in the direction of the group, to which they 
responded with what could be characterized by no more 
dignified name than a snicker.” 

It certainly was true that the embryo farmer could 
complain of a lack of neither friendliness nor advice. 
No sooner was he settled upon the Bascom place than 
his neighbours began to drop in to welcome him to the 
neighbourhood, and with each man came his contribu- 
tion. McLain listened to all with courteous attention — 
and went his own way. 

Get your fences in order,” the Colonel said, tersely. 

The house can wait.” 

McLain smiled. Even the Colonel’s advice was super- 
fluous here. Since that swiftly etched picture of a library 


AUNT JOSEPHINE APPEARS 


141 


in white and grey and mahogany had been visualized to 
him there had been no thought in his mind of essaying the 
house now. “If it is ever done/’ he said to himself, 
“ it will be done at her behest and by her planning, God 
bless her! ... Yes, the house and I can wait.” 

“ He’s goin’ at it right,” remarked Mr. Cartwright to 
John Bascom. “ I told him he’d better get the outbuild- 
ings in shape before he tackled the dwelling house.” 

“ That’s right,” commented Mr. Bascom, remembering 
that it was his advice that had settled this, before Mr. 
Cartwright’s was given. “ He’s a sensible young fellow.” 

He might have changed his mind had he known what 
this sensible young fellow was doing one July morning 
about this time. 

Jean had said the night before as they sat together on 
her father’s porch, “ Did you know we can see your 
light from my window ? In the room that you occupied, 
you know.” 

“Yes, I knew it.” 

“ It’s queer about that light. Sometimes it is bright 
as can be, and sometimes it flickers. I wonder why.” 

“ Evidently the swaying of some tree in between. I 
have noticed the same thing with your light.” 

“Why, have you? Don’t you wish we could get rid 
of it?” 

He nodded, thinking, “ Oho 1 you look for my light 
too, do you ? ” 

Running diagonally between the two places, a larger 
part of it on his farm, was a deeply wooded ravine. He 
did some sighting from his window the next day when, 
according to all the canons of a rural neighbourhood, he 
should have been at work, and the result was that the 
men were set at tree-felling and trimming. The gleam 
from her window that night proved the accuracy of his 
eye. 

“ What did you do to your light ? ” she asked a few 
days later. “ It shines brilliantly.” 


142 THE MASTER OF THE OAKS ” 


Cut down a tree.” 

''A tree? You lawless creature.” 

Not at all. It was my tree. I'm going to make a 
vista — to beautify my grounds.” Then with a lightness 
which only half hid the earnestness back of it : 

ril never let a mere tree obscure the steadiness of 
my light for — this house.” 

It was made so impersonal that she could not appro- 
priate much of this, she reflected afterwards. 

They were much together as the summer days went 
by. The family were all interested in his improvements, 
and it became the accepted custom for him to go over 
every evening and report progress. He was making the 
most of his opportunities now, for August was near, and 
August meant Aunt Josephine. 

“ I suppose I shan't see anything of you then,” he 
complained. I see little enough now ; and I don't get 
any reading at all. People seem to think an invalid 
throws away his literary tastes with his crutches. I be- 
lieve I'll go back to mine.” 

'‘You might unpack your theological library,” she sug- 
gested. “ Have you had it sent on yet ? ” 

"No. I am waiting until I have ' a line of low book- 
cases with bowls and bowls and bowls of daffodils ' on 
them.” 

" Haven't you forgotten that yet ? ” — with slightly 
heightened colour. Instead of replying he burst out 
with : 

" Is Aunt Josephine going to spoil everything ? ” 

" She will spoil the rides. Aunt Josephine thinks it is 
perfectly dreadful for me to go about unchaperoned. 
Maybe she would go with us.” 

" I pass ! Oh, I forgot that in this godly neighbour- 
hood you never ' pass.' Well, I foresee that I shall have 
to console myself with the old Colonel.” 

" What queer intimacies you have,” she mused. " Mrs. 
Debo — Sandy — Zeb Horn — Colonel Judd. I sometimes 


AUNT JOSEPHINE APPEARS 14 S 

wonder what is the basis of attraction in your choice of 
friends/’ 

He looked at her with an inscrutable smile. 

‘‘A sympathy for derelicts.” 

“ Derelicts ? What are derelicts ? ” 

He replied with a counter question. So you think 
Zeb Horn and I were cronies, do you ? ” 

Oh, he told father about your going down there. 
They wondered where the fruit and the wine came from 
— the neighbours that went in afterwards. But when 
father told me that, I knew.” 

Well,” he acknowledged, with the peculiar kind of 
shamefacedness that a man somehow seems to feel at 
being caught red-handed in a kindness, I did go down 
there occasionally. The man was so forlorn. Did you 
know that I was there when he died ? ” 

“ Why, no ! I thought Mrs. Debo found him dead.” 
She did. I knew she was going over there that day 
to see him about Sandy, so when it was all over I shut 
up the house and left him there for her to find.” He 
laughed. “ I thought it would give her something to talk 
about the rest of her life.” 

“ Well, you are the queerest ! ” she said. 

Apparently he did not hear her. He was looking off 
abstractedly into space. The scene in the cabin was be- 
fore him. “Yes-s, — I sat by him to the last breath. 
You see, when I went over that day to take him the wine 
I found that the end was near, and — well ! — that’s a long 
journey to start on alone! ” 

He spoke with such solemnity that she did not pursue 
the subject, but a few days afterwards she said, saucily: 

“ I know now what a ^ derelict ’ is. I looked in the dic- 
tionary to see. It is ‘ an abandoned hulk.’ Do you base 
all your friendships on a sympathy for derelicts ? ” 

“ Who is this man McLain ? ” 

Mrs. Alexander’s tone was uncompromising. It was 


144 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


the afternoon following her arrival, and she and Dr. 
Dabney were enjoying an opportunity for free and un- 
restricted conversation on the piazza. The truth is, that 
poor Miss Lavinia had been already routed and had re- 
tired to her room, ostensibly to sleep but in reality to 
relate her troubles to Jean and in this way gain strength 
for the next attack. As Jean said, there was something 
about Aunt Josephine that kept the fur flying from Aug- 
ust first to September. 

Dr. Dabney had a whimsical theory that the “ dog- 
days ’’ had something to do with it. If only Josephine 
could be persuaded to come for her annual visit in May 
or June when the atmosphere was less oppressive — ^but 
then she never would — so that was the end of that. The 
minister always laid in a large supply of grace for 
August, but Mrs. Alexander’s aggressiveness made heavy 
inroads upon it; and for this reason he endeavoured to 
conserve it by putting a strict curb upon himself. Strange 
how some persons have power to rouse all that is an- 
tagonistic in even a sweet, pacific nature like Dr. Dab- 
ney’s. He was experiencing this now, for he could dis- 
cern an attack in her very question. His foot was gently 
tapping as he replied : 

We are hardly accustomed to designating him in this 
manner, my dear sister, — but the gentleman to whom you 
refer is our neighbour and good friend, Mr. Archer 
McLain.” 

When Dr. Dabney tapped his foot and called Mrs. 
Alexander my dear sister ” it was an indication to those 
who knew him best that the curb was needed — and 
on. 

''Yes, I know his name,” said Mrs. Alexander, with 
some impatience, "but what about the man himself? 
Who is he? I come back after a few months’ absence — 
you know I was up here in March with Mr. Maltby — I 
come back, I say, to find an utter stranger — to me — in- 
stalled upon the most friendly footing imaginable in this 


AUNT JOSEPHINE APPEARS 145 

house! And I have never heard one word about it. 
Who is he? I ask again.” 

“ I beg your pardon. I thought I explained to you 
last night when I introduced him that he was the young 
man who had his leg broken in the wreck and was laid 
up here some months.” 

Some months I ” 

Why, yes, I think so. Let me see. He left here 
only a few weeks ago, and the wreck was in April. Yes, 
I was right in saying months. H-m! time certainly 
flies ! ” . . . Mrs. Alexander fanned herself rapidly 
while he was indulging in this moralizing as to the flight 
of time. Genevieve wrote you about the wreck?” 

Of course. But she wrote nothing about this man. 
Genevieve never writes me the things I want to know! 
She said a number of the injured were brought here — I 
think she said women and children — that was the im- 
pression I got, at any rate — and that one of the patients 
had a broken leg and would probably have to stay some 
time.” 

That was correct. He did stay some time.” 

‘‘ But she never told me it was a man — and a young 
man at that ! ” 

That probably escaped her mind,” explained Dr. 
Dabney. 

^‘Escaped her mind! James! whatever escapes the 
mind of a young woman of twenty you may be very 
sure it will not be the fact that a young man a few years 
older than herself is around ! No ! Genevieve meant to 
keep this from me ! ” 

But why should she wish to keep it from you ? ” 

“ Because she knew that I would disapprove of it.” 

My dear sister ! ” exclaimed Dr. Dabney, moved to 
unusual plainness of speech, “ this is one case beyond 
your approval or disapproval. The young man was 
thrown here by the providence of God; he was chained 
here by a broken leg; when he was well enough to go. 


146 TI-IE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


he went. Now, what could he have done more, and what 
could we have done less ? 

Well, I suppose it is not the ' providence of God ’ 
that brings him back here every evening ! ” Mrs. Alex- 
ander’s emphasis was biting. ‘‘ Oh, I know all about it ! 
I have talked it over thoroughly with Lavinia already. 
I am not one to put off a plain duty ! I saw at once that 
something must be done. Lavinia acknowledged to me 
that he was a frequent visitor at the house.” 

'‘Acknowledged?” protested Dr. Dabney, who was 
somewhat of a precisian in the use of words. “ Now, 
really, Josephine ! ” 

“ Yes, acknowledged. I taxed her with it and she 
admitted that I was right. I could see how it was last 
night. No intimate friend of the Charltons could have 
been more at home in this house than this unknown man 
appeared to be. And my poor sister’s child whom I 
would shield from every harm — whom I love as my own 
— in daily contact with him. . . . Oh, yes, I know that 
Genevieve is dear to you too, but ” 

Dr. Dabney lowered his eyes and looked at her over 
his glasses. 

“Naturally,” he said, a little drily. 

“ I am sure of it. I don’t want to do you injustice, 
James. But to come herfe and find my poor sister’s 
daughter in such peril ” 

Dr. Dabney’s stored up patience was ebbing away. 

“ What is the particular danger that you appre- 
hend?” 

Mrs. Alexander looked at her brother-in-law with an 
exasperation bordering on contempt. 

“ The danger that always accompanies free intercourse 
between young people of their ages — of matrimonial en- 
tanglements. Oh, it isn’t worth while for us to mince 
matters, James. You should have found out long ago 
all about this man. One never can tell how these things 
are going to end. They ought always to be stopped be- 


AUNT JOSEPHINE APPEARS 147 

fore they are begun ! ‘ An ounce of prevention is worth 
a pound of cure/ ’’ 

“ But, Josephine,” — Dr. Dabney was shocked beyond 
measure — “ Genevieve is but a child ! I am sure she has 
never thought ” 

“ A child ! ” Mrs. Alexander fanned herself violently. 
‘‘ She is a year older than my poor sister was when she 
first met you! You know how that terminated.” 

Dr. Dabney did not reply. He was thinking of his 
young wife as compared with his daughter. 

Why, bless my soul I ” he said at last. “ So she is ! ” 

‘‘ Of course she is ! If you hadn’t had your head in 
the clouds you would have remembered it long ago. . . . 
Now, — this is why I ask you : What do you know about 
this young man ? ” 

The dismayed minister reflected. Very little. Cer- 
tainly little that would satisfy Mrs. Alexander. 

"‘You can see for yourself, Josephine, that he is a 
gentleman, and a man of education and refinement.” 

“ Do you know anything of his antecedents ? ” 

Yes.” Dr. Dabney looked relieved. His father 
was a clergyman.” 

‘‘ A clergyman ? Of the Church ? ” 

Of the Presbyterian Church.” 

“ Oh ! ” The monosyllable was not encouraging. 

Where is he from?” 

New York, I think, is his birthplace.” 

And where has he lived since ? There is a quarter 
of a century between his birth and the present time.” 

“ I really cannot answer that. I have heard him speak 
of the West. I think he has lived there, perhaps.” 

“The West is large. What part of it?” 

“That I could not tell you.” 

“ Do you know what his business was before he came 
here?” 

“ No-o, I really do not.” The minister was feeling 
convicted of considerable ignorance. “ He has been quite 


148 THE MASTER OF ‘‘ THE OAKS ” 


a traveller — has been around the world — to Egypt and 
the Holy Land — and in later years has travelled quite 
extensively in the West and in Mexico. He talks very 
entertainingly of his travels.’’ 

Mrs. Alexander was perceptibly mollified. People 
could not go around the world without money. It might 
be well to look into this. Mr. Maltby might grow tired 
of waiting on Jean. 

He is a man of means then, you would say ? ” 

“ He is considered so here. He paid cash for his 
place.” 

Cash for his place ! Well, really, James, your stand- 
ards are very primitive. Now, Mr. Maltby ” 

Josephine!” Dr. Dabney rose suddenly and walked 
to the end of the porch and back again before he spoke 
another word. But the one he had spoken was sufficient 
to quell Mrs. Alexander for the present. He stood be- 
fore her at last and spoke in a tone full of suppressed 
passion : 

“ Never let that man’s name be spoken again in con- 
nection with my daughter. I have investigated his rec- 
ord. He is a profligate libertine and roue! I would 
rather see Genevieve in her grave than wedded to such 
a man. Now let that end it!” 

|Mrs. Alexander was a nagger, as Jean had said, and a 
tireless combatant against a weak foe, but she was no 
match for a white wrath like this. However, she was 
aware that the race is not to the swift but to the tireless, 
and Mr. Maltby was worth two millions if he was worth 
a cent! She determined if possible to have Jean with 
her the ensuing winter. 

In pursuance of this plan, she said to her brother-in- 
law a few days after this : 

“ Genevieve is not getting the kind of social training 
she ought to have. She should spend more of her time 
with me. Why, James, the poor child hardly knows how 
to conduct herself at an ' At home,’ or a ‘ Tea.’ ” 


AUNT JOSEPHINE APPEARS 


149 


“ I trust/’ said Dr. Dabney with dignity, '' that she 
may be able to acquit herself with credit in the graver 
emergencies of life.” 

This ended it for the time being. 

Your Aunt Josephine,” said McLain to Jean one day, 
is inclined to investigate me, I perceive.” 

“ My Aunt Josephine,” she replied, angrily, is in- 
clined to meddle with everything in this world that doesn’t 
concern her. What has she been saying to you now ? ” 
She had been saying a good deal to her niece. 

“ Now, don’t get ruffled. Don’t you see how calm I 
am? As near as I can make it out she thinks I am not 
a suitable person to play with you, and she is trying to 
make out a case against me — with my own assistance.” 

How would she get your assistance ? ” 

“ You know she proposed the other day driving over 
with me to see my new possessions. Well, my outside 
possessions being in rather an inchoate condition, and 
my mansion still ‘ obnoxious ’ I tried to beg off, but she 
insisted, and as you know I came over for her yesterday 
in my new buggy. I knew that would pass muster at 
any rate. Well, — I soon discovered that what she wanted 
was not an opportunity to investigate my possessions 
but their possessor. It was so obvious as to be abso- 
lutely funny. I haven’t been put through such an ex- 
citing examination since my Freshman year when I 
flunked in Math.” 

'' I hope you didn’t flunk yesterday.” 

“ Not I. I was on my mettle. I passed one hundred 
plus. But I’m afraid I bedivelled your relative a little. 
The temptation was irresistible. Do you mind?” 

Not one bit. Aunt Josephine makes me simply furi- 
ous with her inquisitiveness and persistency.” 

Say, — do you think it is any harm to slide anybody 
gently off the track when the track isn’t hers and she 
won’t get off any other way ? ” 


150 THE MASTER OF THE OAKS ” 


She shook her head doubtfully. I don’t know about 
that I am a great hand to tell the truth or to refuse 
outright That’s my way.” 

But don’t you see if you refuse outright that your 
very refusal tells what the inquisitive one wants to know ? 
Now I heard a man say once — and he was a good man 
too and his word was never questioned — that he con- 
sidered a person to be perfectly justified in telling an 
untruth in answer to a question which the questioner had 
no right to ask when a refusal would in effect give the 
whole thing away.” 

“ I think I should refuse.” 

“ Oh, no, you wouldn’t. Imagine my refusing to an- 
swer your Aunt Josephine ! She asked me five hundred 
questions. And I told her four hundred and fifty lies! 
There was a small percentage of the truth. But think 
of the strain of making the four hundred and fifty con- 
sistent! I am afraid I have entangled myself in her 
web. But it was fun to lead her on. Oh, you’ll hear 
from it ! ” 

She did. 

My dear, the man is a Mormon.” Mrs. Alexander 
announced this triumphantly to her niece the next 
day. 

‘‘A Mormon! Why, Aunt Josephine, how you talk! 
What ever put such a thing in your head ? ” 

I questioned him — delicately, of course, and not in 
a manner to arouse his suspicions.” 

‘‘What right had you to question him?” asked Jean, 
hotly. 

“ I feel it my duty, Genevieve, to learn something about 
this young man. You are my sister’s child, and I want 
to do what I can — in my humble way — to protect you 
from ” 

“ But, Aunt Josephine ! I have a father to protect me ! 
Why do you feel ” 

“ Oh, your father ! . . . A good man — an excellent 


AUNT JOSEPHINE APPEARS 


151 


man — but in delicate matters like this a mole ! — a bat ! — 
an eyeless fish ! ” 

Jean shut her lips tight and looked out of the window. 

“ Well, at any rate, I’m thankful to say nobody ever 
called him a ferret ! ” But the sarcasm was lost. 

I am convinced that he is a Mormon — probably one 
of those dreadful elders they tell about that go around 
secretly trying to make proselytes. That may have been 
his object in coming into your midst.” 

“ You think he managed to have the train wrecked and 
his leg broken to give him an opportunity to do this, 
do you ? ” 

Mrs. Alexander was impervious. 

My child, he knows all about them ! I must say for 
him that he answered my questions without any of the 
reserve I had expected from a Mormon.” 

Jean could well imagine how he had led her on. 

“ Aunt Josephine, what ever gave you this crazy no- 
tion in the first place ? ” 

“ His familiarity with it all. Why, he has even read 
the Book of Mormon. He told me so.” 

'' What if he has ? I’ve read the Koran, but I’m not 
a Mohammedan.” 

‘‘ And he knows all about the Temple and the Taber- 
nacle and the — the taxing house — and ” 

“The taxing house? What’s that?” 

“ Don’t ask me ! Ask him. He told me the greatest 
lot of things — about the Lion House — and the Bee 
House — and the Bear House ! ” 

Jean laughed. She could imagine the rest. 

She reproached him the next time she saw him. “ You 
ought to be ashamed of yourself to deceive my dear 
Aunt Josephine this- way ! ” 

“ Well, she’s so easy ! ” he pleaded in extenuation. 
“ And it gives her so much pleasure. I want to do my 
part toward entertaining her, don’t I ? ” 


XII 


DR. DABNEY INVESTIGATES 
HE “ dog-days ” fretted themselves away. Sep- 



tember came at last for The Manse and with it 


A a more bracing atmosphere. Life really seemed 
livable again to the exhausted household. Mrs. Alexan- 
der kept up the warfare to the end. Her last words 
to Dr. Dabney at the country station were : ‘‘ James ! 
find out for yourself about that young man before it is 
too late! He is a Mormon.’’ 

As he drove home from the station Dr. Dabney thought 
uncomfortably of his sister-in-law’s warning words. He 
was very sure she was wrong; she had not advanced a 
single argument to prove she was right; and the pre- 
sumption was always against her; and yet 

Perhaps it might be the part of wisdom to put the 
question directly to Mr. McLain and set the matter for- 
ever at rest. The thought of catechizing an habitual 
visitor at his house — one who had eaten of his salt — was 
extremely repugnant to him, but his sister-in-law’s words, 
‘‘ before it is too late,” stayed by him. He switched the 
horse impatiently. Josephine had the most unpleasant 
way of putting a disagreeable duty before one! Of 
course if he had himself felt it to be a duty that would 
have been a different thing, but certainly if he ever did 
question Mr. McLain on this point it would be solely to 
satisfy (and silence) Mrs. Alexander. 

Dr. Dabney had spent much of the last month in 
pondering the situation suggested and weighing the 
dangers. Suppose Josephine were right, and this should 
end in an attachment between the two young people. 


162 


DR. DABNEY INVESTIGATES 


153 


Would he really wish to put any obstacle in their way? 
He had asked himself the question many times, and thus 
far it had never received an affirmative answer. He 
had not the worldly ambitions for his daughter that Mrs. 
Alexander had; he would be quite content to have her 
live and die in the quiet neighbourhood where she was 
born ; and the thought of having her safely settled near 
him where he could see her often — where his grand- 
children could run across the fields to visit him and be 
back in the home nest at night, — this was an attractive 
picture to him. 

He was one who believed that a woman achieved her 
highest destiny, her greatest happiness — as the wife of 
a good man, the mother of his children, and the maker 
of his home. But it must be a good man — one beyond re- 
proach. None other, he told himself almost with a feeling 
of relief, could ever gain or hold the love of a woman like 
Genevieve. Her instinct had warned her against Maltby. 
He felt that he was somewhat a judge of character — 
who does not? and if there was anything in the outward 
appearance he had never seen a cleaner man than the 
one in question. To Dr. Dabney cleanness of life was 
an essential in the man that aspired to his daughter's 
hand. He accepted no code of morals that compro- 
mised with impurity in man or woman. 

It might be premature to suppose that McLain would 
ever seek his daughter in marriage, but he told himself 
in all candour now, his eyes being opened, that it would 
be a strange thing if two young persons thrown together 
as they had been and having so much in common, should 
not respond each to the call of the other. . . . Ah, 
well! the call must decide it. Nature knew! . . . 
‘‘ That’s a call that no one human soul can answer for 
another,” he said aloud. 

The minister had got this far when Mrs. Alexander’s 
unpleasant suspicions obtruded themselves upon him 
again. 


15 ^ THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


Well, well ! ” he thought, Impatiently. I will ask 
him about it and have it over.’’ 

It was several weeks before he found a convenient time 
for doing so, and he did not make an opportunity. The 
truth is, that whenever he looked into the frank, open 
face of the young man his fears were allayed. One day, 
however, McLain came over when Genevieve and Miss 
Lavinia were both away and the circumstances were so 
propitious that he could no longer compound with his 
conscience. 

“ Mr. McLain,” he said during a pause in the conver- 
sation, there is a question I should like to ask you if 
I may — one that has been suggested to me by ” 

McLain smiled. He had been expecting this. ** By 
Mrs. Alexander?” 

Dr. Dabney looked surprised. 

Yes. Perhaps you have already an inkling of what 
the question is?” 

I think I have. Miss Genevieve has ” 

‘"Ah! I suspected as much. Then further explana- 
tion will not be necessary, and I will ask you plainly 
without circumlocution: Are you or are you not — a 
Mormon ? ” 

“ I am not.” 

*‘You have never been?” 

Never.” 

“ Have you ever been connected with them in any 
way ? ” 

For one moment McLain hesitated. But one moment 
is long enough to flash upon Memory’s screen many a 
significant picture. What he saw upon his was a canyon 
road, a kindly face, and a sheep wagon. 

“ I was employed by a Mormon once.” 

Oh, I don’t mean that. I wish to ask if your family 
is, or has ever been, in any way connected with this 
sect ? ” 

Not in any way whatever.” 


DR. DABNEY INVESTIGATES 


155 


Then with a frank smile he said, “ I am afraid I have 
brought this on myself, doctor. Mrs. Alexander asked 
me a good many questions and their drift was so apparent 
that I couldn’t resist the temptation to help her make out 

a case. It was foolish ” 

Yes, yes,” — there was a twinkle in the doctor’s eye — 

but — perhaps natural.” 

Then, remembering that this was only one of Mrs. 
Alexander’s points, though the most important one, he 
continued : 

“You have lived in Salt Lake City?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ May I ask you, without offence, what your business 
was while you were there ? ” 

McLain swallowed before answering, which Dr. Dab- 
ney did not notice. 

“ I was employed in a bank.” 

“Ah, yes. Were you there long?” 

“ I was in the bank but a short time. I had gone 
West for my health. There was pulmonary trouble in 
the family. Not finding conditions in Salt Lake favour- 
able ” 

“No. I should say a bank would have been a poor 
place for you — with tendencies of that nature.” 

McLain bowed. “Yes, it seemed best for me to go 
elsewhere; and I went down, by easy stages, into old 
Mexico. There I recovered my health, but I have been 
a wanderer ever since.” 

“ I see. I have been greatly interested in those wan- 
derings as you have related them to me. I have never 
had the advantages of travel myself, but I enjoy hear- 
ing other men’s experiences. It must be very delightful 
to go at will into these remote places.” 

Dr. Dabney was relieved that the last of a disagreeable 
task was done. “ I hope I have given no offence, Mr. 
McLain, by my seeming curiosity.” 

“Not at all, doctor. Not at all. I am glad to have 


156 THE MASTER OF ‘‘ THE OAKS ” 


given you all the information you have asked for. . . . 
Yes, old Mexico is a very interesting country. Have I 
ever told you of my ascent of Mt. Popocatepetl ? 

When Jean and Miss Lavinia came in the two were 
in the midst of a most thrilling recital, which must of 
course be repeated, and went over into the supper hour. 
They would hardly have recognized the brilliant narrator 
in the man who sat that night in his own room with his 
head bowed like a bulrush, his windows closed to the 
'' vista,’' and his heart to all that was pure and good. 
The powers of darkness were fighting within him. Hours 
he sat there. Finally he got up and went out into the 
yard. It was a moonless, rayless night, but it suited his 
mood. He sat down on the horse-blocks and the struggle 
went on. This was to be fought out once for all. 

What it was no man could have told, for it was a 
voiceless conflict, until suddenly without warning the 
man’s arms were flung out with the cry of a soul at bay : 

“ But I’ve paid ! I’ve paid ! . . . Good God ! am I 
never to be through ! ” 

It was a week after this before he went over to The 
Manse. He had intended it should be two, but there was 
nothing to do at home and he wanted pitifully to see 
her. 

“ Mr. McLain,” said Jean as they sat together in the 
library before the wood fire that the crisp October air 
made grateful, “ haven’t you decided yet about the choir ? 
I wish you would join it. We need a tenor desperately.” 

He looked at her and smiled but shook his head. In 
his ears were still sounding the rumble of his late con- 
flict. He had thought when he came over that it was 
settled, but at her words it was suddenly renewed, for 
it was very lonely at The Oaks, and the choir presented 
its own peculiar allurements. 

'' Now tell me,” she demanded at last, facing him 
squarely with the issue after a laboured and lengthy 


DR. DABNEY INVESTIGATES 


157 


presentation of the case on her part and some skilful 
parrying on his, ‘‘ is there really any good reason why 
you should not sing in our church choir ? ” 

He was looking away from her, half afraid to do other- 
wise, for her eyes were very eloquent and her lips most 
persuasive. . . . Was there any real reason, he was 
asking himself? It was such an innocent pleasure! It 
committed him to nothing. Why must he deny himself 
such a trivial thing as singing in a church choir? His 
conscience which usually compelled him to keep faith 
with himself at least, gave him a sharp prick at this, for 
he well knew it was not denying himself the pleasure of 
sacred music at which he rebelled, but a greater renuncia- 
tion. And why should he renounce it? he questioned 
himself, looking steadily into the fire depths. And the 
fire did not answer — and did not need to answer. He 
knew why. “ But I’ve paid ! I’ve paid I ” rose passion- 
ately that old, old cry, and he suddenly grew so weary 
of it all that when she asked again, “ Now, is there really 
any reason?” the noise of battle ceased and the light 
of resolve leaped to his eyes. 

No,” he said, looking at her quietly, there is abso- 
lutely no good reason why I should not sing in your 
choir.” 

And you will ? ” 

I will.” 

Oh, I am so glad ! We need a tenor dreadfully. 
But my! aren’t you solemn about it! You said that as 
if you were pronouncing sentence of death.” 

Did you think so ? It sounded more to me like a 
verdict of acquittal. Well, now ! I believe you said if 
I joined your choir I might always take you to choir 
practice ? ” 

“I didn't! You know I didn’t!” 

‘'But you will? Now tell me,” he safd, mockingly, 
using her very tone and trick of intonation, even to the 
wealth of emphasis and the dropping of the “r’s,” “is 


158 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


there really any good reason why I shouldn’t always take 
you to the meetings of our chu’ch choiah ? ” 

She looked with ostentatious perplexity out of the 
window, down at her foot, up at the ceiling, and finally 
into the fire, shaking her head gravely as he had done — 
he recognized himself in the exaggeration — then turning 
toward him replied in a tone of melodrama, No ! there 
is absolutely no — good — reason why you should not al- 
ways take me to our chu’ch choiah ! ” 

‘‘And may I?” 

“ You may.” 

Her mocking lips were perilously close to him. An 
insane impulse came over him to catch her in his arms; 
but he caught desperately at his self-control instead, and 
felicitated himself upon the obvious fact that it was gain- 
ing in strength. 

If McLain ever had any stirrings of conscience after- 
wards about having aligned himself with the religious 
life of Tinkling Spring they were simply twinges and 
passed as quickly as they came. The thing was settled 
now. He gave himself up unreservedly to the pleasure 
of being with her, of mingling his voice with hers, of 
singing from the same book — his hand side by side with 
the shapely one rising from her dimpled wrist, whose 
curves sometimes held his gaze when it should have been 
concentrated on the sacred words. 

And then when the hour of singing was over there was 
the keener enjoyment, the unalloyed happiness, of those 
long winter rides with Jean tucked snugly beside him in 
his new buggy behind his spanking bays, her bright face 
smiling up into his, her voice speaking sparkling nothings 
in his ear. She had the sweetest voice, with its inde- 
scribable soft Southern drawl and its elisions, — and the 
merriest laugh that ever woke the echoes of a quiet 
country road. He sometimes walked his horses when he 
might well have gone faster, just to prolong the subtle 
bliss of it all. 


DR. DABNEY INVESTIGATES 


159 


Sometimes when the highway was just right for it — 
which it must be admitted was not often — and the spirit 
of daring was on them he would let out the bays when 
they reached the long, level stretch after they passed 
the hill and they would skim over the hard, packed road 
at breakneck speed — breathless and voiceless with the 
exhilaration of this swift-winged flight through space 
together. 

Ah! how blind are they who in these days of myopic 
vision when luxury is fondly imagined to be life, and 
all the world is mad to be honk-honking — how blind, I 
say, are they who set bounds upon the opportunities of 
youth and arrogantly assume that within the charmed 
circumference of the tonneau with its irresistible sweep, 
is joy, — and that outside of it is vapidness 1 Such stu- 
dents have not gone very deep in the interesting study 
of the teens and twenties. For in the teens and twenties 
is the Golden Age of Youth — and Youth is Love — and 
Love is Life — and Life, with youth and love, either plus 
or minus the tonneau — is Joy 1 

A hundred times during that fall and early winter was 
he tempted to speak the words that would seal his fate ; 
but something always held him back. “ Not yet ! he 
would think, '‘not yet! Let me prove myself to them 
first.” Perhaps it was this; perhaps the haunting fear 
that the word spoken prematurely might end all. His 
was the self-distrust of the true lover, for Jean Dabney 
was not a girl to wear her heart on her sleeve, and there 
was always the fear of Tom Alexander. 

It was from one of these rides they had come in one 
sparkling January night when there was a frosty tang 
about the air that went to the head like wine. It had 
brought a sparkle to Jean's eyes and a dash of red to 
her cheek, and when not knowing there were guests in 
the house they stepped gaily into the hall and she stood 
under the hanging lamp, laughing and shaking snow from 
her red-brown hair, the visitor, who was facing the operi 


160 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


door into the hall, thought he had rarely seen so fair a 
vision. The two were in gay humour, laughing and 
talking when they came in, but observing that Dr. Dabney 
had company they were subduing themselves and medi- 
tating retreat when the doctor called : 

“ Genevieve ! 

“ In a minute, father,” — divesting herself of Her wraps 
and signalling Too late ! ” to her companion, who 
frowned ruefully, remembering that the ride might have 
been prolonged over a perfect road. She advanced into 
the room to meet a middle-aged man — a rather pleasant 
looking one — whom she had never seen, but who had risen 
and stood awaiting her with evident anticipation. 

“ Genevieve, this is an old friend who used to know 
you years ago, — Mr. Judd. You would hardly know 
her, would you, Calvin ? ” 

Mr. Judd had not fully delivered himself of the gallant 
and somewhat lengthy speech invited by this presentation 
to a young lady who at their last meeting had sat upon 
his knee when McLain entered from the door immediately 
facing him. The stranger glanced up casually — and the 
words on his lips trailed off into nothingness. 


XIII 


CALVIN JUDD 

4 H! come in, come in, my boy! ... Mr. Judd, 
let me introduce to you our young friend and 
neighbour — Mr. McLain.’' 

The two men shook hands cordially. 

“ I am not sure that I quite understood the name ? ” 
apologized Mr. Judd, interrogatively. 

“ McLain,” the young man said with distinct enuncia- 
tion, meeting the stranger’s eye pleasantly and steadily. 

Mr. Judd gave the hand he held a renewed grasp. 

Ah, Mr. — McLain, I am very glad to meet you, sir, — 
though your coming did interrupt some interesting remi- 
niscences with this young lady,” — Calvin Judd was from 
the West and had the breezy Western cordiality — “ very 
glad indeed to meet you 1 ” 

They sat down about the open fire, McLain courteously 
placing a chair for Jean in front of it, and he himself 
passing to one a little in the shadow, and they fell into 
easy conversation. 

Mr. Judd is from the West, Mr. McLain,” explained 
Dr. Dabney, with the amiable intention of making con- 
versation general. “ Salt Lake, I believe you said, 
Calvin ? ” 

“ Yes, doctor — the ' City of the Saints.’ Have you 
ever happened to be in our town, Mr. McLain? ” 

“ I was once — for a short time,” the young man re- 
plied, briefly. 

'' Rather an attractive place, don’t you think ? ” pursued 
Mr. Judd. 


161 


162 THE MASTER OF ‘‘ THE OAKS ” 


I cannot say that it attracted me as much as some 
places I have seen.” 

Ah ? ” Mr. Judd appeared surprised but not offended, 
though Miss Lavinia thought Mr. McLain’s frankness 
rather brusque, — “ you may not have seen it under the 
most favourable circumstances. You must give us an- 
other chance, Mr. — McLain, when you can stay longer.” 

There was something in his tone that convinced Jean 
he was not altogether pleased with McLain’s estimate 
of his adopted city, and perhaps the doctor had the same 
idea, for he went on hastily: 

'' Don’t let that story get away from you, Calvin.” 
Then to the young people, Mr. Judd has been enter- 
taining us with some reminiscences of his official life. 
Perhaps, Calvin, we should explain to Mr. McLain that 
you are Sheriff of Salt Lake County.” 

McLain bowed. Mr. Judd opened his lips to speak, 
but apparently thought better of it and turned to Jean. 

“ I don’t know that I ought to tell that story. Miss 
Genevieve. It is not very complimentary to your sex.” 

“ Go on, Mr. Judd,” she laughed. “ You will never 
find me deserting the ranks, no matter how you malign 
us.” 

You will understand that in my strictures on feminine 
human nature I recognize the fact that it is the softness 
of a woman’s heart that is at the bottom of the — well, 
if you will pardon me — the softness of her cranium in 
these matters. And then — ‘ present company,’ you 
know ” 

“Yes, I know. We’ll excuse you. Give us the 
story.” 

“ The truth is,” he said, turning to McLain, “ I was 
expressing myself rather warmly about the mawkish sen- 
timental sympathy which women feel for criminals, and 
some of the foolish things it leads them into. And to 
substantiate my position I was relating an occurrence I 
had known of in Salt Lake some years ago. A man was 


CALVIN JUDD 


163 


thrown into jail there for an offence which to hard- 
hearted men seemed sufficient to warrant his languishing 
in confinement for a short space. Men are pretty hard- 
hearted, you know, compared with women. Well, while 
he was there a lot of women came to read to the prisoners 
and sing hymns to ’em, and this chap being pretty good- 
looking caught their eye, and when they talked with him 
he was soft-spoken and sorrowful looking — and all that 
goes a long way with women, doctor, — and they imme- 
diately jumped at the conclusion, without enquiry into 
his offence, that prison fare wasn’t good enough for a 
handsome man like him, and they told it around among 
the other women, and before long it kept that fellow 
working overtime to eat all the dainties that piled in 
on him! Yes, sir! the jailer said it was fairly sickening 
to see good women making such fools of themselves — 
saving your presence, ladies ! ” 

“ Don’t apologize,” said Jean, I should feel just as the 
jailer did.” 

Mr. Judd gave a quick, short laugh. 

“ Well, about this time, when his digestion could hardly 
keep up with the supply, and the women were falling 
over themselves to see whose pie would get there first, 
a case of another kind came up that attracted considerable 
attention and even got into the newspapers. An officer 
found some starving children in a hovel of a tenement 
one bitter cold day without an atom of fire, and the three 
little ones huddled in the bed to keep them from freezing. 
There was nothing — absolutely nothing — in the house to 
eat, and the mother had gone out to try to find work, 
or if she couldn’t do that, to beg food to keep her children 
alive. Well, between the cold and the lack of food those 
babies were pretty near all in, and it made a pitiful story 
when it got into the papers, and the women saw to it 
that those children had something to eat, I can tell you, 
for their hearts are ’most always right, God bless ’em ! 

“ Well ! Didn’t they go for the brute of a man that 


164 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


had deserted them! and nobody harder on him than 
the good sisters of the cake and pie. Then upon in- 
vestigation what did it turn out but that the ‘ brute of a 
man ’ was the identical chap they had been feeding on 
the fat of the land I Yes, sir! . . . They were might- 
ily ashamed of it then, and the Chief of Police read them 
a lecture on philanthropy that ought to have done them 
some good. 

‘ When you find yourself running over with sym- 
pathy,’ he told them, ' you spend it on women and chil- 
dren — and cripples — not on able-bodied men in jail for 
something you don’t know anything about.’ There’s a 
lot of misplaced sympathy in the world, Mr. McLain,” 
he ended. ‘‘ If a man has done wrong he ought to sufifer 
for it, don’t you think so ? ” 

“ Undoubtedly. It is only a question of the justice of 
the punishment, — and when he has had enough.” 

He spoke impartially, but there was that in his eyes 
from which the other man turned away with a qualm 
of the very weakness he had ascribed to the other sex. 
When Mr. Judd spoke again it was to his host about 
neighbourhood happenings and the changes during his 
long absence. 

In this conversation McLain, being a stranger, natu- 
rally took no part; but Dr. Dabney had known Calvin 
Judd many, many years ago and was finding keenest 
enjoyment in the revival of those old days; and her 
father’s friends being always Jean’s friends, as well, she 
too was feeling a pleasure only second to his in all the 
reminiscent flood in which they were soon enveloped. 

‘‘ And so this young lady who used to flirt with me 
eighteen years ago at the tender age 6f two or three is 
now leader of the choir in the old church, and I am 
pushed aside by another generation of young fellows,” 
Mr. Judd said in playful banter to Jean, who laughingly 
admitted one allegation while denying the other. Well, 
well! Time brings its changes, doctor — time brings its 


CALVIN JUDD 165 

changes! Do I understand that you also sing in the 
choir, Mr. — McLain ? ’’ 

He turned to the young man with an agreeable smile 
seen of all and a gleam of amusement in his eyes which 
was perceptible to but one. 

I do,” replied McLain, as succinctly as if he were 
on the witness stand. There was a curtness about his 
brief reply that surprised Jean, and she hastened to sup- 
plement it with the remark that when they found Mr. 
McLain possessed of an unusually good tenor voice they 
had persuaded him to bring it to the assistance of the 
church. 

“ I see. I see. And doubtless Mr. McLain was easily 
persuaded. I know how forcible such arguments are.” 

“ Indeed, he was not easily persuaded. He held off 
like some young girl waiting to be urged to a perform- 
ance on the piano.” 

Mr. Judd turned from her to the young man across 
the hearth. 

'' Couldn't quite make up your mind to it at first, 
eh?” 

“ Not immediately. The urging was rather pleasant, 
you see.” 

'' I see. . . . Well, doctor, isn’t a quartette choir 
an innovation in the old church? When I sat under 
your ministrations we used to sing from the old ‘ Psal- 
modist ’ and ^ Jubilee ’ to a pitch given us by a tuning 
fork. I can hear that resonant ^ buzz-z ! ’ now, though 
I haven’t thought of a tuning fork for a quarter of a 
century nearly.” 

“ Yes, we’ve changed with the times, I suppose. We 
haven’t got to a fiddle and a bass viol yet, as I hear they 
have in some of the churches, but ” 

‘‘You’ll get there!” encouraged Mr. Judd, with a 
cheerful optimism. “ Things move rapidly in this world 
— I’ve been observing it since I’ve been back. Why, 
don’t I remember my father’s telling how in his time one 


166 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


of the elders said, ^ He would rather see the devil thrust 
his right arm into this church than see an organ there ? ' 
But you’ve got the organ.” 

“ I remember it ! ” cried Miss Lavinia, who had taken 
small part in the conversation up to this time. That 
was when you were in Princeton, brother. We had a 
little melodeon that we used in Sunday School, and 
Mollie Bell played it, and Jimmie Cox pumped, because 
Mollie was a piano player and couldn’t keep her fingers 
and feet going at the same time — at least that was what 
^he said was the reason — and a lot of us sat around the 
melodepn and did the singing. And we made up a plan 
one day that we would have the melodeon that night at 
church — you see they never would let us have it in 
church, but only in Sunday School, for somehow they 
thought it was wicked to have an instrument for public 
worship — I don’t know why when we had it in Sunday 
School, but ” 

“ They reasoned, probably, that the plastic mind of the 
child was incapable of receiving impressions,” said Mr. 
Judd, '' but that adults should be protected. How is 
that, doctor, for an explanation?” 

“ Very logical, Calvin. Evidently your education in 
dialectics has not been neglected.” 

“ Well, I suppose that must have been it,” pursued Miss 
Lavinia, drawn out of herself by this rush of memories 
and a little intolerant of interruptions, “ for they would 
not let us have it in church. We stayed after Sunday 
School, a lot of us young folks, and planned that we 
would have the melodeon that night or die in the at- 
tempt.” Miss Lavinia’s faded cheek flushed at the bare 
recalling of that dash for liberty, and Jean, turning to 
McLain, touched her own cheek and called him to notice 
Miss Lavinia’s. He smiled back at her with swift un- 
derstanding. 

“ And how did it turn out. Miss Lavinia ? ” he asked. 

‘‘ Well, when time for the evening service came we all 


CALVIN JUDD 


167 


got there early and selected our tunes, and then when 
the first hymn was given out we looked at each other 
and Jimmie Cox got the melodeon well pumped up and 
Mollie Bell put her foot down on the loud pedal and 
held it there, and we looked straight ahead of us and 
let out our voices — and how we sang ! At the first sound 
of the melodeon Dr. Davis turned around in his seat 
and glared at us, and everybody thought he was going 
to get up and leave the church — he was so angry — but 
he didn’t, and we sang every hymn just that way, and 
m'^l but didn’t we enjoy it!” 

'' Why, auntie ! I am surprised that you should have 
done so wicked a thing ! ” 

'' It wasn’t right, my dear. I should never advise you 
to do so, but ” 

“ And you’ve had the organ ever since ? ” asked 
McLain. That was the final victory ? ” 

“ Oh, dear no I We never had it after that night. 
It was the very next day in the meeting of the session 
that Dr. Davis made the speech that Calvin speaks of. 
And my mother said when she heard of it that the devil 
wasn’t far off when a ruling elder could make such a 
speech. No, we never had an organ until Dr. Davis’s 
daughters were grown up and wanted one. Then he 
gave in.” 

“ That’s the way they educate us, Calvin,” said the 
minister. 

This led to talk about changing times, and when there 
was a moment’s lull Mr. Judd turned directly to the 
young man opposite. 

“Mr. McLain, I have been wondering if you can be 
the young man my father has been telling me about who 
is living on the old Bascom place.” 

“ Probably. I bought the Bascom place some months 
ago.” 

“Ah? Then you are expecting to become a perma- 
nent resident of this neighbourhood ? ” 


168 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


I expect to — yes,” McLain answered with delibera- 
tion. “ That is, if I am successful in what I am trying 
to accomplish. I don’t know very much about farming. 
Your father has been giving me some lessons.” 

So he tells me. He thinks you are an apt pupil ; 
says you are going at it in the right way — which I sup- 
pose means following his advice — that’s generally the 
right way. Well, my father is a pretty good farmer. 
He ought to be able to tell you a few things. Isn’t that 
so, doctor ? ” 

None better in the community,” responded the doctor, 
heartily. Mr. McLain is doing well to take the advice, 
of one good farmer who is willing to give it when asked 
rather than the proffered instructions of a dozen who 
volunteer it.” 

“ I think my father has really enjoyed having Mr. 
McLain come to him.” He looked at the immobile 
features of the man opposite, and his lips twitched. 
“You’ve captured him, all right!” 

“ Mr. McLain has a way of capturing us old fellows,” 
remarked Dr. Dabney, giving him an affectionate 
glance. 

“That’s very kind, doctor,” said the young man, a 
flush rising to his face which for some reason seemed 
pale to-night. 

“Yes,” Mr. Judd remarked after a moment, “farm- 
ing is a nice, clean business — not quite so exciting as 
dabbling in mining stocks, which is what we do out in 
our country, but safer. I congratulate you, Mr. McLain, 
that you have made so prosperous a beginning in this 
community, which as my old home I am glad to see 
attracting new blood and — good citizens, like yourself. 
Even in this short time — I believe you said you had been 
here less than a year — ^you seem to have established a 
snug little nest here. The Bascom farm is a good one, 
and with my father as your tutor,” — with a short laugh 
which Dr. Dabney thought just a trifle disrespectful to 


CALVIN JUDD 


169 


Colonel Judd — your church affiliations, an d-d — con- 
genial friends — he waved his hand in an expansive 
way that seemed to include present company and the 
whole countryside — ‘'you certainly are fortunate, Mr. 
McLain.’^ 

The young man whose prospects, present and future, 
were thus pleasantly though somewhat embarrassingly 
held up to view, made some polite acknowledgment to the 
effect that he had always considered himself so, and 
nobody but the urbane Mr. Judd observed the convulsive 
closing of his right hand which hung on the side next 
to the mantel. 

“ Speaking of mining, doctor, — do you know that with 
the mining industry comes one of the curses of our 
Western country?” 

“ How so ? I thought mining was one of your richest 
resources.” 

“ And so it is. It isn’t mining itself that I am refer- 
ring to. I am too good a Westerner for that. But it 
is what goes with it — gambling in mining stocks. It 
offers such a temptation to men to speculate. It is an 
insidious thing! It gets into the blood like a passion 
for any other kind of gambling. There is a temptation 
to a man to put his small savings in in the hope of 
getting rich quick, and all that is very demoralizing to 
business. I’ve been through the mill and I know ! Per- 
haps you observed the prevalence of this evil, Mr. 
McLain, while you were in Salt Lake ? ” 

“ I was in Utah but a short time,” said McLain, with 
composure. 

“Yes, I remember. Well, naturally you wouldn’t 
know much about it — just passing through, as you did — 
and perhaps somewhat hurriedly as so many do.” The 
young man was looking at him steadily with slightly 
narrowed eyes. “ Well, as I say, there is a feverish, un- 
natural excitement about the thing that is very detri- 
mental to a healthy business life.” 


170 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


'' Still, it seems that the mining industry should be a 
legitimate one,’^ said Dr. Dabney. The silver and the 

gold are put there by the Creator — for our use 

But it is not getting the silver and the gold from 
the place the Creator put it that I’m talking about. Oh, 
no! That isn’t it! It’s getting the silver and the gold 
— and the greenbacks too — from where the Creator didn’t 
put them.” 

How could that be done, Calvin ? It sounds para- 
doxical.” 

“ Not at all. There are so many good mines in Utah, 
and so many fortunes have been made out of them, 
legitimately, that there is always the desire to exploit a 
new one in the hope that it may prove a bonanza. Some- 
times it is. But generally it isn’t. 

“ You see, they have only to find a promising prospect 
hole, begin work on it, organize a company, give it a 
name, get it listed if possible (they are more careful 
about that now than they used to be), put the stock on 
the market, and sit back and wait for us to bite. And 
we bite! You know they say there’s a sucker born 
every minute! . . . Do people buy stocks like that? 
Why, of course they do ! Crazy to get in on the ' ground 
floor.’ Sometimes they get in below the ground floor. 
You buy in expecting this flourishing institution to turn 
out a mine and you wake up some fine morning to dis- 
cover that it is — and ever will be — a hole in the ground, 
and you are in it ! ” 

Miss Lavinia had been trying to follow the intricacies 
of the mining business as expounded by Mr. Judd and 
had laid aside her crocheting to give her whole mind to 
it. It seemed necessary now to drop in a question. 

‘‘ In what, Calvin ? In the mine ? ” 

“ No, madam — in the hole.” 

The two men, one of whom knew so little about mining 
operations, looked at each other and laughed, an(J the 
doctor and Jean joined in. As for Miss Lavinia, she 


CALVIN JUDD 


171 


resumed her crocheting and gave her mind to settling 
whether she would have waffles or Sally Lunn for break- 
fast if Calvin stayed all night. 

'' I never have quite understood how stocks can be 
forced up or down at will/' said Dr. Dabney. Of 
course I have not studied the subject, but I wonder about 
it as you speak of it.” 

“ I think I can illustrate that to you, doctor, by a 
story I heard the other day. It is not a Utah story, 
but it will illustrate the boosting of mining stocks any- 
where. In the early days of California there was a man 
living in San Francisco by the name of Hascall. He 
had made a lot of money in the mining business and 
owned the controlling stock in a string of mines, — some 
of which were shipping ore — the others shipping litera- 
ture. Hascall stood pretty well with the mining men 
around San Francisco, for while he was known as a 
daring speculator and a keen trader he never broke his 
word in money matters. 

“ Well, one day a Jew whom he knew but slightly 
came into his office. Hascall knew him as one of a crowd 
of Jews who had been plunging rather heavily in mining 
stocks, and he had no great liking for the clique. The 
Jew got right down to business. He told Hascall that 
he had been losing heavily during the past year and was 
at his wits' end to know how to recoup. He had come, 
he said, to see if Hascall couldn't put him on to something 
good, so that he would stand a fair chance of getting 
back what he had lost. Hascall told him he thought it 
was a pretty nervy proposition for him to come to him 
to get a tip — that he wasn't in the habit of giving tips 
anyway — especially to one who could not even be classed 
as a friend. The Jew admitted he was asking a good 
deal, but said he had come as a last resort and pleaded 
to be let in on something good. Hascall demurred, tell- 
ing him plainly that if he should give him a tip it would 
be all over town by the next day and would spoil any 


m THE MASTER OF ‘‘ THE OAKS ” 


chance for stock manipulation that might be attempted. 
But the Jew swore he would hold as strictly confidential 
any information that Hascall would give him. 

The outcome of it all was that Hascall relented. 
There was one stock on the market, he told him, that 
was certain to rise within a few days, and he might let 
him in on that if he would promise on his word of 
honour not to breathe it to a living soul. How much did 
he want to risk? He didn’t want to risk anything, the 
Jew said, warily, but he could get hold of $30,000 if he 
was sure he wouldn’t lose on it. 

^ Well,’ says Hascall, ' you know what mining deals 
are — they are always more or less uncertain — but I know 
that this stock is going to rise inside of two days. In 
fact, I am so sure of it that I will agree to stand good 
for any losses you may incur on this advice — provided 
you don't spoil the game by selling before it's time. 
You’ll have to agree to that or it’s all off.’ 

“ The Jew agreed, and then Hascall told him. The 
stock was South Central . — Get all he could. Now, Has- 
call owned a controlling interest in South Central. See ? ” 
He nodded at McLain, who smiled. 

I see.” 

I don’t,” said Jean. 

“You don’t have to, young lady. You're a woman. 
A few days afterwards the Jew came to Hascall in 
great excitement. He had bought the stock and it had 
advanced so that he could now sell at a good profit. 
‘ Not yet,’ Hascall told him. The next day South Cen- 
tral took a jump, and again the Jew came around for 
instructions. ‘ No,’ says Hascall, ‘ not yet. Hold on two 
days longer.’ Sure enough the following day the stock 
took another jump, and a large amount changed hands, 
a good part of which was Hascall’s stock. 

“ On the afternoon of the second day the Jew rushed 
into Hascall’s office, the picture of despair. The slump 
had come! The stock had been hammered down to 


CALVIN JUDD 


173 


one-half what it was when the Jew bought in. He was 
wild. 

Fm ruined/ he cried, * absolutely ruined ! Why 
in ' — well, well say ' the world,’ though that wasn’t just 
what the Jew said — ‘ didn’t you let me sell when I wanted 
to?’ 

'' 'A man’s judgment can’t be infallible,’ says Hascall. 
* How much did you lose ? ’ 

' Thirty thousand dollars,’ screamed the Jew. 

‘ Well,’ says Hascall, ^ it’s unfortunate. But no man 
can say Fm not as good as my word.’ He was writing 
out a check. ‘ Here’s your money, Mr. Goldstein.’ And 
the Jew took it, mighty glad to come out even.” 

“ But how could he afford to do that ? ” asked the 
minister, who was a little bewildered at the rapidity of 
this rise and fall. 

Mr. Judd chuckled. 

Oh, he could afford it all right. He had cleaned up 
a hundred and fifty thousand dollars on that transaction, 
after giving his check for thirty thousand to cover the 
Jew’s loss ! ” 

His audience gasped. 

'' And the funniest thing about it was that Hascall 
never had any idea of boosting South Central until the 
Jew came to him for a tip. But he knew that if he 
gave Goldstein a confidential tip he would go straight to 
his friends and let them in on it. He saw a good chance 
to boom a stock of very uncertain value and to get even 
with a crowd of Jews who were trying to do him. He 
did it all right, for that crowd lost about three hundred 
thousand dollars of good money on that deal. You see, 
doctor,” — for Dr. Dabney looked as if he were still wait- 
ing for the point — “ he boosted the stock by that very 
simple ruse, and the Jews fell over themselves trying to 
get it. Well, they did get it, for Hascall’s brokers had 
instructions to sell. When the end came they had the 
stock (and the experience) and Hascall had the money — 


174 THE MASTER OF THE OAKS ” 


one hundred and fifty thousand net! . . . No, sir, the 
Jews didn’t have any hard feelings toward Hascall. On 
the contrary, the thirty thousand dollar check he gave 
Goldstein simply added to his reputation as a man of his 
word, while the crowd was lost in admiration of a fellow 
that could turn a trick like that.” 

I suppose,” said McLain, in an even voice, “ that was 
looked upon as a perfectly legitimate transaction?” 

“ I never heard that he lost standing by it. It’s a 
queer world, Mr. McLain.” 

“ I’ve sometimes thought so,” McLain answered, drily. 
Then, glancing at the clock, he rose. I am sorry to 
break up this party, but I have quite a drive before me.” 

Calvin Judd rose also. 

“ I will ride with you, Mr. McLain, if you don’t mind. 
I walked over.” 

“ With pleasure,” said McLain, moistening dry lips. 
His voice was unnatural in a hoarseness that had come 
upon him. Genevieve Dabney looked up at him wonder- 
ingly. As the lamplight fell on him he looked white and 
haggard. 

They both said good-night to Miss Lavinia in the room, 
and when the others had gone to the door McLain raised 
her wrinkled, blue-veined hand to his lips. She smiled 
^ up at him, evidently pleased. “ A pretty, old-fashioned 
custom, Mr. McLain. I am sorry to see it pass.” 

Before he reached the door he met Dr. Dabney coming 
back in a shiver. 

Good-night, my boy ! good-night. . . . Genevieve, 
don’t leave that door open.” 

Jean stepped out into the vestibule with McLain and 
closed it softly behind her. Calvin Judd was unfasten- 
ing the horses. The young man stood a moment in 
silence beside the girl, too filled with the pregnant mag- 
nitude of the moment for speech. Then, overpowered by 
some uncontrollable emotion, he caught her hand in both 
of his and pressed it to his heart. 


CALVIN JUDD 


175 


*'Jean!’' he cried, hoarsely, “Jean! oh, Jean! . . . 
Good-bye!** 

The two men had driven out of sight of the house 
before either spoke. 

“ Well ? said McLain, doggedly, at last. 

“ Oh, I knew you, of course,'' returned Mr. Judd. 


XIY 


McLAIN PLEADS 


T 


[HE silence was broken again by McLain. 


How did you find me ? ” 


JL My dear boy, I didn’t find you. You found 
me. I give you my word of honour I did not know you 
were within a thousand miles of this place until you 
walked in on me two hours ago.” He grinned into the 
astounded face of his companion, and gathered up the 
lines which had fallen from his unnerved hands, re- 
storing them to him with a polite bow. 

“ No, Mr. McLain, — if I am justified in calling you 
by that name ” 

“You are entirely justified,” the young man said 
curtly. “ It was my father’s name, and is the one that 
I am entitled to.” 

“ But surely my memory doesn’t play me false when 
it tells me that you used to be called Branham? And 
that it was as Branham you were ” 

“ Branham was my stepfather’s name and I was al- 
ways known by it. I have used my own — the one that 
belongs to me — since I have been here.” 

“O-ho! that’s it, is it? Well, now, I don’t blame 
you ! ” There was open derision in his tone. “ A man 
naturally wants to bear his father’s name at some time 
in his life, and this certainly was a convenient season 
for a change. Well, as I was saying, Mr. McLain, this 
meeting only goes to prove the reliability of the old 
adage, which nobody who has seen life as sheriflP in the 
West would ever deny — that truth is stranger than fic- 
tion. And it goes to illustrate also how insignificant a 


176 


McLAIN PLEADS 177 

switch can sometimes turn a loaded freight train of 
events from us or toward us. 

“ Do you know it is an actual fact that had you pro- 
longed your ride last night two hours, or said good-night 
to Jean Dabney at her father’s door without coming in, 
I should have gone back to Utah to-morrow without a 
ghost of an idea that you were in my vicinity ? ” McLain 
clenched his hand. “ I am here on a hurried visit to 
my old father whom I have not seen for nearly twenty 
years — more’s the shame to me! — and that is my sole 
business. I have heard him tell about the young man 
who had taken the Bascom place and how friendly he 
was — and I will say right here, McLain, that I appre- 
ciate your attentions to him, — for I haven’t done my 
duty by the old gentleman ” 

“ Don’t mention it,” said McLain, drily. It is quite 
possible that my ' attentions,’ as you are pleased to call 
them, might have been less marked had I known he 
was your father. At any rate I have received more 
than I have given. Go on with what you were 
saying.” 

I was saying that I had heard my father speak of 
you in the highest terms, and that to-night before you 
appeared on the scene Dr. Dabney had told me of the 
young man cast at his door by a wreck, and had given 
you a most excellent character; and I had congratulated 
them both upon this acquisition to the neighbourhood— 
for who the devil would have expected to find in Archer 
McLain, prosperous, reputable farmer of Tinkling 
Spring — John Branham, the — well, we won’t call 
names 1 ” 

McLain drew a quick, hard breath and shut his 
teeth. ... To have had a chance like that — and then 
have lost it! But — there was no use dwelling on it 
now. The switch had turned his way and the load was 
upon him. 

“Well, — what are you going to do?” he demanded. 


178 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


roughly. Give it to me ! Don’t keep me over the fire 
as you did to-night ! ” 

Mr. Judd laughed. 

Oh ! you recognized it as a roast, did you. I flatter 
myself that was pretty well done. In fact, my side re- 
marks to you were so delicately worded, as you may 
say, and you made so little sign, that I began to fear 
my arrows might have gone over your head as they did 
over the old doctor’s. You carried it off well, McLain — 
I’ll say that much for you. There was just one little 
clutch ‘of your hand that betrayed you. Then I knew 
that you were not invulnerable.” 

“ Experiences like mine are not conducive to thick 
skins,” said the man, with bitter irony. It was diabol- 
ical!” 

Mr. Judd appeared inclined to pursue the same line 
of diabolism further, for he was obviously disinclined 
to answer McLain’s question in any direct fashion. 

'‘Say! that mining story fell flat, didn’t it? Nobody 
knew enough about the subject to follow me except you, 
and I didn’t feel that I had your undivided attention. 
I’ll bet you ten dollars right now the old doctor thinks 
Hascall was out thirty thousand dollars on that deal.” 

“ Oh, don’t sit there talking to me about your mining 
stories ! ” cried McLain, savagely. “ Tell me what you 
are going to do ! ” 

“ What do you think I ought to do ? ” 

“ Oh, of course I can see your side, Judd,” he said, 
slowly. “ Theoretically — a man in your position must 
do his sworn duty — I suppose. As sheriff of Salt Lake 
County ” 

“Well, if I were sheriff of Salt Lake County,” re- 
marked Mr. Judd, dispassionately, but with an emphasis 
that left no doubt as to his sincerity, “ you would know 
what I was going to do pretty damned quick, I can tell 
you ! But what makes you think I have any sworn duty 
at the present time?” 


McLAIN PLEADS 179 

Mr. Judd left his victim dangling at the point of an- 
other question. 

“ Speak out plainly and' tell me -what you mean,” de- 
manded McLain, his face whitening to the very lips. 

“ I mean that I am no more sheriff of Salt Lake 
County than you are. I am now plain Calvin Judd, 
Esq. — citizen of Utah — relegated to private life.” 

'' But you told me ” 

''No, I didn’t. It was Dr. Dabney that told you. He 
said I was sheriff when he should have said I had been. 
He misunderstood me, that’s all; and I didn’t correct 
it, for I wanted to keep you over the fire a while. . . . 
No, sir! I’m no sheriff. A private citizen — that’s what 
I am. Sad, but true! ... You see, it is quite a while 
since ' little Willie left us ’ — several years — I forget just 
how many, but ” 

" Four.” 

" Is it, indeed ? I shouldn’t have said it was so long. 
Well, four years, my boy, is time enough for a good 
many official heads to drop in the basket — a President’s 
might — and mine is there.” 

As he listened to the man’s jesting words McLain’s 
brain worked rapidly. The situation and the possibility 
of a way out were made instantly clear to him; avenues 
were opening up before him. If only he could persuade 
Judd! The horses stood still, obedient to a quick, con- 
vulsive pull on the bits which was involuntary. The 
reins dropped and the shaking hand of the driver was 
laid on .the knee of the man beside him — this ex-officer 
of the law. 

" Judd ! ” he implored with dry lips, thick tongue, and 
eyes like those of a hunted animal. " If you are out of 
office you don’t have to do this thing ! Give me a chance 
— for God’s sake!” 

Mr. Judd stooped again and picked up the lines. 

" Look here ! If you can’t drive better than this you’d 
better take to oxen. They’re safer than horses. . . „ 


180 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ’’ 


No ! ril keep these lines myself for a while. Tm afraid 
of you ! ” Then, not unkindly, Now say all youVe 
got to say for yourself, boy.” 

And McLain pleaded as a man pleads for his life. 

When the horses reached the old Bascom place they 
stopped of their own accord. Indeed, their second driver 
had not paid much more attention to them than had the 
first, for McLain’s story was an absorbing one. 

“ I’ll drive you home,” said McLain. The conversa- 
tion, long as it had been, and as slowly as the horses had 
walked, was not yet done. “ We’ve got to finish this 
thing up now.” His jaw had a determined set, for his 
fate still hung in the balance. 

“ Well, McLain,” said Mr. Judd, after a wait that 
seemed interminable to the other. I don’t mind telling 
you that I always considered you more sinned against 
than sinning in that matter — you were nothing but a boy 
— and what you tell me confirms me in that opinion. 
If punishment is intended to be reformative instead of 
retaliatory, as it always should be with the young — 
you’ve had enough. I do verily believe that its purpose 
is accomplished in you. You are a stronger man to-day 
than nine-tenths of the untempted. That’s my notion 
about it. 

“ And the two men in this world whose opinion I value 
most — my father and Dr. Dabney — have given you a 
clean bill of health so far as your reputation in this 
community goes. I wouldn’t exactly trust either of 
them to track a criminal, but they both have a keen 
instinct for a good man, and they think they have found 
one in you. Maybe they are wrong, but maybe they 
are right. I can’t tell — and I’m going to give you the 
benefit of the doubt.” 

McLain’s heart gave a great throb. 

** Now, — taking all these things into consideration, I 
propose to do nothing whatever in this matter. I am 


McLAIN PLEADS 


181 


relieved of responsibility by being relieved of my office; 
and I think I shall not assume it voluntarily. So far as 
I am concerned, Mr. McLain, you are absolutely safe. 
I do not need to tell you that my word is to be relied 
upon. Take your life and make of it what you can.” 

The relief in the face before him would have touched 
a harder heart than Calvin Judd’s. Age seemed to fall 
away from it. Whatever this thing was between them 
it had settled down upon the young man inconceivably 
in the short time since he had dropped his mask at Dr. 
Dabney’s door, but now with this release his old self 
emerged from under it. 

“ Judd,” he said, solemnly, God helping me, I will 
make it something worthy of your confidence.” 

I believe you will, McLain. I honestly believe it. 
And you can make good just where you are. I impose 
but one single condition upon you.” 

McLain looked at him without speaking, a presage 
of coming evil strong upon him. 

“Well,” he said at last, “what is it? I am not in a 
position to make my own terms. What’s the condi- 
tion?” 

“ That you shall give up all thought — if you have ever 
had any — of Genevieve Dabney.” 

The wheels of the vehicle turned round and round on 
the moon-lighted road. A twig caught in one of them 
seemed to occupy fully the young man’s mind. It seemed 
every minute imminent that it would drop off; but it 
continued to stay and McLain continued to watch it. At 
last he turned to his companion. 

“Oh, Judd,” he said with a groan, “I can’t do 
that! ... I can’t — do that!'’ 

“You’ve got to!” The emphasis was so quiet but 
so pitiless that the man to whom the words were spoken 
shivered. “ Have you spoken ? ” 

Their relations were such that what McLain would 
have resented as an impertinence in another man he 


182 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


bore without a word. It is doubtful if he even thought 
of it as curiosity at all. 

No. Not openly. But I have shown her in a hun- 
dred ways ” 

“ Oh, well, then it will be easy. Simply make up 
your mind to it and then let her alone. Keep away 
from her. If you can’t stay here and do that, get out!” 

You know I can’t do that, Judd. I have bought my 
place and stocked it. I can’t throw it away.” 

I suppose a place that was bought might be sold. 
And there are other farms and other localities. . . . 
You can't do it, McLain! I won’t stand by and see this 
girl sacrificed. Why, I have known and loved these 
people since I’ve known anything. Dr. Dabney and my 
father have been intimate friends all their lives, and 
their fathers were before them. This is a friendship 
of generations. Do you suppose I am going to stand 
by, with my mouth sealed, and let her marry you — 
youf ... No, sir! you can’t do it!” 

There was a finality about his manner of saying this 
that struck a chill to the heart of the man listening to 
him. It was no use to try to assert himself. He was 
in the power of another and the other man had the 
thumbscrews. His eyes were again on that senseless 
twig whirled round and round. He stopped the horses, 
took the butt of the whip and released it. Then he 
turned to his companion. 

“ Judd,” he pleaded, don’t take this away from 
me! . . . Good God, man! haven’t I lost enough?” 

Calvin Judd turned away from the suffering in the 
man’s face, but he did not relent. 

“ You’ve lost a good deal, McLain. I won’t deny 
that. But you’ve got to lose this too? There’s no help 
for it. . . . Why, you know you oughtn’t to marry 
this girl! Now, don’t you?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well then ! Aren’t you man enough to give it up ? ” 


McLAIN PLEADS 


183 


** Not unless I have to.” 

'' Well, — you have to ! That’s what I am telling you 
now. There is no other way.” 

“ There is another way ! ” McLain cried, desperately. 

I will go to her and tell her everything and leave my 
fate in her hands — not yours ! ” 

‘'You would never do it. It would be a useless 
humiliation if you did. I know these people, McLain. 
There is not a prouder, more high-minded family in the 
State of Missouri — nor in the world, for that matter. 
It is the right kind of pride, too — pride of integrity, 
pride of character — that’s what they have. They don’t 
care anything about money. They have what money 
can’t buy — the inherited traditions of generations of 
God-fearing ancestors. Do you believe a man like that 
would give his daughter to you ? And would the daugh- 
ter, if she knew all, give herself to you?” 

“ I might try it and see,” he said, defiantly. 

“You might — but you won’t. You have too much to 
lose. Why, McLain, don’t you know that by one turn 
of my heel I could crush you? — so dead that you would 
never rise in this community or any other? ... I 
could! And, by the Lord Harry! if you don’t keep 
your hands off this girl, Fll do it!'' 

The man listening knew it was no idle threat. . . . 
There was no escape. ... It was like the other things 
he had encountered in his life — inexorable. 

“Ah-h, Judd!" he said at last, with an explosive 
breath. “ You are hard on me ! You are hard on me ! ” 

“No harder than I ought to be. You have no right 
to marry this girl, McLain. And — ^you — know it ! Don’t 
you?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then you agree to my condition ? ” 

“ I suppose I’ll have to. There’s nothing else I can 
do. You've got me!" 

The lifelessness in his voice moved the other man to 


184 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


pity. It had been the curse of Calvin Judd^s official life 
that he could not steel his heart against suffering of 
body or soul. 

Now see here, McLain, brace up ! You begged me 
for a chance in life and Fve given it to you. Everything 
is before you except this one thing. Now make the 
most you can out of your life. A woman isn’t the only 
thing this world holds for a man! You’ll find that out 
after a while — as I have. There’s business — and politics 
— and ” 

“ We will not discuss it further,” said McLain, with 
a dignity of dismissal that left Mr. Judd feeling strangely 
enough that their positions were reversed. “ When do 
you go ? ” 

“ To-morrow.” He was out of the buggy now at his 
father’s gate. McLain reached out his hand. 

“ Well — good-bye, Judd. I suppose I’m obliged to 
you for what you have done for me. I don’t want to 
seem ungrateful. But” — he shook his head with a ges- 
ture of despair — ‘‘ if you’d take your gun and blow my 
brains out you would add to the obligation.” 

“ Don’t be a fool, boy I ” said Mr. Judd, shaking him 
vigorously by the hand. “You’ll feel differently after 
a while. Come over and see my father as often as you 
can. It will do you both good. I leave him in your 
care — d’you hear? . . . Good-bye! You can rely on 
me, McLain.” 

Calvin Judd looked after the young man as he drove 
off. 

“ Lord ! what a mess this world is ! ” he soliloquized. 
“ But I think I did right. ... I think I did.” He 
told himself so many times before he got back to Salt 
Lake, for somehow he could not get McLain’s despair- 
ing face out of his mind. 


XV 


AN AWKWARD SITUATION 

F rom the vestibule Jean Dabney went straight to 
her room, pausing only to say good-night. She 
wanted to be alone with the tumultuous joy that 
filled her. All night she had lain with her hand pressec^ 
to her own breast as for one brief moment it had been 
pressed to his. He had never called her by her name 
before, and in her ears was sounding ever that passionate 
“Jean! oh, Jean!” 

All day she went about with a song in her heart. It 
bubbled over sometimes, and Dr. Dabney in his study 
heard it and paused in the preparation of his sermon. 
“ She's a happy child,” he thought. “ God grant she 
may ever be.” 

He had hardly settled himself again at his writing 
when a bright face peeped in. 

“ May I come in, father, or are you too busy ? Honest, 
now.” 

“ Come in.” 

She poised herself on the arm of his chair and kissed 
his scanty locks. 

“ It is a shame to interrupt you — and for nothing. 
I’ve just come to say, ' I lo’es you de’ly, de’ly, de'ly, 
p^par” 

It was what she used to say as a child. His arm closed 
about her. “ Genevieve, have I ever been too busy to 
hear that ? ” 

“ No, daddy dear, you never have ! Do you remem- 
ber how Aunt Lavinia used to scold me for it, and how 
in spite of all she said I would put my head in just long 
185 


186 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


enough to say, ‘ I lo’es you de’ly, de’ly ’ when she 

would catch me? I remember how it mystified me that 
a little thing like that — just a minute — could be an in- 
terruption/' 

“ I told her at last never to do it again. I knew you 
came to me as you would have gone to your mother." 
He sighed softly, feeling his daughter’s loss. 

'' Father, dear, in those days I never missed my mother. 
You and Aunt Lavinia filled her place completely in 
my childish heart. But — isn’t it strange? — I came to 
you this morning because I’ve been thinking so much 
about her. Somehow she seems so near to me to-day.’’ 

The manuscript was pushed back, and he took from 
his drawer a picture painted on ivory of a young girl 
strangely like Jean. 

“ She had it painted for me when we were first en- 
gaged.’’ 

“ She must have loved you, father, to have gone 
through all that stormy courtship for your sake.’’ 

‘‘ Yes,’’ he said, simply, “ yes. Could you ever love 
and sacrifice like that, my dear ? ’’ He pinched her cheek 
playfully. 

“ I — I think I could, father.’’ Her hot cheek was 
buried in his coat. 

Some time, perhaps, some time,’’ he said, gently. 
Then, “ A great love, or a great sacrifice, ennobles life, 
my child. Its effects are never lost.’’ 

“ Tell me about her, father.’’ 

The sermon waited while he lived over his courtship 
days that he might bring nearer to her the mother she 
had never known. She went from him with a new 
tenderness in her heart for them both. 

But the happiness within her was bubbling up too 
much for repression. She put on her jacket and ran 
races with old Rover down to the “ big road ’’ and back, 
and back again, until Miss Lavinia said it was too cold 
to be out. Too cold! Her blood was rioting at such a 


AN AWKWARD SITUATION 


1S1 


pace that she dropped, breathless and rosy, at Miss 
Lavinia’s feet, wondering if that dear lady had ever 
really been young. 

'' Auntie, did you ever have a love affair ? But of 
course you have. They say every woman has one, and 
you are sweet enough to have had a dozen. Why, 
Aunt Lavinia, you are blushing! Now tell me! I am 
dying to hear a love story ! ” 

And sitting before the fire as the day waned, with 
the sympathetic speaking face of the girl turned toward 
her, Miss Lavinia told the little tragedy that had lain 
folded in her breast all these years. It seemed very 
pitiful to Jean. She suffered more at the moment than 
Miss Lavinia, to whom it was now but a fragrant mem- 
ory. Must love always end in tragedy? How strange 
that her father and Aunt Lavinia could still smile! 
Surely if 

It was never finished. She went upstairs for the 
apron she had made for Aunt Phyllis and to look for 
the liniment she had promised Uncle Ephraim, pausing 
as she went to catch up the cat and tickle him behind 
the ear in the way he liked. Every creature came in 
for a share of her exuberant affection to-day. Oh, it 
was a beautiful world ! and everything in it so dear ! . . . 
And he was coming! 

At supper she had on the dress he liked, and little 
Ephraim had been directed to put extra wood in the 
back hall. Then through the long evening she waited, 
listening for the hoofbeats that did not come. 

“ Genevieve, I have a letter here from your Aunt 
Josephine. She says 

“ Oh, father ! she isn't coming up ? Not in the 
winter ! " 

Never had Aunt Josephine seemed less desirable. 

No. The letter is about Tom. He has returned." 

Returned ! Why, I thought he had decided to stay 
a year and a half." 


188 THE MASTER OF THE OAKS ” 


“ I believe he has tired of it, or something of the kind. 
At all events, he is back. She wants him to come up 
here for a while. I think she is troubled about Tom.” 

‘‘What’s the matter?” 

“ I can’t quite gather that from her letter. You may 
read it.” 

“ Well, in all my life,” Jean said as she folded up the 
letter, “ I have never known before of Aunt Josephine’s 
writing to see if her plans were convenient to us. Tom 
has come when he pleased and stayed as long as he 
liked. Why doesn’t he write himself ? Do you suppose 
he is ill?” 

“ It sounds so.” 

“ What are you going to do, father ? ” 

“ Ask him to come, of course. You would like to 
have him, wouldn’t you ? ” 

“ Ye-es,” she said in the way truthful people have of 
prevaricating. Never had she wished it less. Tom 
always demanded her whole time. She looked at the 
clock. It was too late to expect him now. 

In her room she chided herself. Of course he would 
not come to-night. She might have known that. He 
would wait until Sunday when he could see her alone. 

At church Jean looked in vain for McLain. The an- 
them was crippled for want of a tenor and laid aside. 
After the service she heard her father ask Mrs. Debo 
if he were ill. No, Mrs. Debo said, there was no reason 
why he did not come except that he didn’t want to — 
same reason that kept most people away. 

The long afternoon passed, but no McLain appeared. 
What could it mean? . . . She pondered the ques- 
tion deeply. It would have been strange at any time; 
scarcely a Sunday since he had been in his own home 
had passed without his riding over to The Manse; but 
after that night in the vestibule — her cheeks grew hot — 
what could it mean? She went to her window then and 
looked out toward The Oaks. There were no leafy 


AN AWKWARD SITUATION 


189 


barriers now to obscure a gleam, but there was none 
in sight. Resolutely she set her lamp in front of the 
window. He should see at least that her light was 
burning steadily. 

It was a week or ten days after this that they met 
accidentally. 

They had learned at The Manse that Colonel Judd was 
ill, and she had gone over with her father to see him. 
To her amazement they found McLain installed as 
nurse. ... Yes, he had sent for the doctor and was act- 
ing under his directions. Mrs. Debo, of course, must 
take this time to sprain her ankle! The Colonel would 
have to do with him until the doctor could find a nurse. 

He explained in answer to Dr. Dabney’s question that 
he had gone over a few days before to play chess and 
found the Colonel quite ill. 

“ Headed straight for pneumonia,” came a wheeze 
from the bed. 

He supposed it was, McLain admitted. He had gone 
home to consult Mrs. Debo, who told him exactly what 
to do, made a “ pneumonia jacket,” supplied him with 
flaxseed for poultices, and told him to send for Dr. 
Llewellyn at once, no matter what the Colonel said. 
He had sent his own man off without asking permis- 
sion. ... Yes, Dr. Llewellyn said Mrs. Debo had 
advised exactly the right thing, and the Colonel was 
now out of danger, thanks to her and the doctor. He 
minimized his own part in the case, but the Colonel’s 
eyes rested upon him with the affection of a father. 

They soon rose to go and McLain went to the car- 
riage with them. At the door Colonel Judd called the 
minister back. 

He saved my life,” he wheezed, hoarsely. '' He 
worked over me like a son — like a son ! Tell you — about 
it — when I get more — breath.” 

Jean and McLain, left to themselves, were feeling th^ 


190 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


awkwardness of their position. The thoughts of both 
were upon their last parting. Then Jean, with the frank- 
ness which was a part of her nature, said : 

Mr. McLain, have I done anything to offend you ? ” 

He looked at her a moment without speaking. . . . 
And he could never explain it! . . . Then he shook 
his head. 

‘‘No; you couldn’t offend me, — Jean.” 

“ You were not over Sunday, and I didn’t know ” 

The blue devils had me Sunday, body and soul. I 
couldn’t get away from them. And since that” — he 
knew that an explanation was due her — “ well, since that 
you see I’ve been pretty busy here.” 

Of course. And I am so glad you could be here. 
But my cousin, Tom Alexander, is coming to-morrow. 
Come over and see him, can’t you ? ” 

'' I certainly shall.” 

Her father came out just then, and after a few words 
about the Colonel they said good-bye. She thought much 
as they rode home about what he had said. She was 
glad it was nothing worse than the “blue devils” on 
Sunday — if it really was that. . . . But his manner 
was so constrained — and why should it be? . . . She 
wondered if he had seen her light. . . . And why 
should he have shut out his from her? 


XVI 


TOM 

D r. LLEWELLYN was at The Manse when young 
Mr. Alexander arrived. While the family were 
welcoming the wanderer he was making some 
observations on his own account. His practised eye was 
taking in at a glance a few things that were to come 
upon the rest more gradually. Dr. Dabney had told him 
of that portion of Mrs. Alexander's letter in which she 
expressed her conviction that Tinkling Spring would be 
a desirable place for her son just at this time, and asked 
that he be put under Dr. Llewellyn’s care. He had had 
his suspicions at the time, and when the young gentleman 
was ushered in and he had one keen look at his eyes 
and his mouth his mental diagnosis was confirmed. 

Smart old lady that ! ” was his inward comment. 
She’s sent him up here to sober ofif.” 

It did not occur to Dr. Llewellyn that Mrs. Alexander 
had any other motive than a selfish desire to relieve 
herself of the responsibility and trouble incident to this 
process. But there he underrated her. In truth, Mrs. 
Alexander — foiled in her laudable intention of securing 
Mr. Maltby’s money to the family — was just turning her 
agile mind in other directions for her niece when her 
own son appeared rather prematurely on the field. His 
appearance was a distinct shock to her. His frequent 
calls for money in these last few months had given her 
some uneasiness, but she was not prepared for the de- 
terioration which was apparent in a few hours’ inter- 
course. Tom had always been more or less addicted to 
gentlemanly drinking — all young men were, she sup- 
191 


192 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


posed ; but this — this really was alarming, not to say dis- 
graceful. He had lost his grip of himself, — a thing no 
young man in his position should ever do. Still Mrs. 
Alexander could not ignore the fact that it was a thing 
which many young men in his position did do; nor blot 
from her memory the recollection that one of these 
young men had been Tom’s own father. A fear of 
‘‘ the sins of the fathers ” — unknown until now — fell 
upon her. Was there anything in heredity, after all? 
She had all her lifetime scouted such an idea; but Tom’s 
appearance, his recklessness, and the occasional thickness 
of his tongue, coupled with his striking resemblance to 
his father under similar conditions, startled her out of 
her complacent beliefs. If there should be anything 
in it 

After a week’s observation of her son and his trans- 
Atlantic habits she became seriously alarmed, and being 
prone to sidestep any disagreeable responsibility she de- 
termined that the best place for Tom was not with his 
old companions but in some retired spot away from 
the temptations of the city. And what would be so 
natural and so safe a refuge as the home of her brother- 
in-law? After a week of her tearful remonstrance and 
continuous nagging, her son agreed with her. 

It is only just to Mrs. Alexander to say that at first 
there was no ulterior motive in the selection of The 
Manse as an asylum for her son. It was his physical 
condition alone that influenced her. But as she reflected 
on that home and its inmates and the associations it 
would afford him, another and more subtle thought came 
into her mind. Genevieve had always had a great in- 
fluence over Tom, — so much in fact that his mother had 
resented it in days past as weak women often resent 
any influence for good upon their children which is 
stronger than their own; but now, in her time of need, 
it presented itself to her in altogether a different light. 

She had become thoroughly alarmed about Tom’s 


TOM 


193 


condition; this trouble was deeper seated than she had 
at first supposed; and with his tendencies (Mrs. Alexan- 
der was becoming a rapid convert to the heredity theory) 
— he would need all the help that could be given him. . . . 
Well, — who could ever influence a man as a wife could? 
— this in disregard of the patent fact that she herself 
had been a wife with the duty of reclamation laid upon 
her and had signally failed. Tom had always been fond 
of Jean — a fondness which she, having the highest good 
of both at heart, she told herself, had frowned upon. 
But now — well, it was different now! She looked upon 
the coarsening lines of her son’s face in a panic of appre- 
hension. ... Yes, if he were really in earnest about 
this old fondness for Jean she would be quite reconciled 
to it under the circumstances, — even though Jean had but 
little of this world’s goods. When she reached this point 
she" sighed deeply, feeling herself to be a mother ready 
to sacrifice lifelong ambitions for her son. As to any 
other sacrifice Mrs. Alexander was as unseeing as the 
eyeless fish to which she had once compared her brother- 
in-law, Sweet, pure, innocent Jean was to be hurried to 
the altar with as little compunction as a lamb is led to 
the slaughter! 

‘^Yes, it is serious,” Dr. Llewellyn was saying in re- 
sponse to the minister’s question as he followed him to 
the door, '' but it is not contagious.” A plain talk fol- 
lowed. 

“ I think you must be mistaken, doctor ! ” said Dr. 
Dabney, shocked beyond expression. 

“ I am not mistaken,” the physician asserted. I’ll 
venture to say his suitcase is loaded up now. You’d 
better see to it that he has no opportunity to get more, 
doctor, or else ship him back home. If you really want 
to do the best for him let Jean drive around with him 
wherever he goes. She’ll keep him straight. You’d 
better tell her about it.” 


194 THE MASTER OF ‘‘ THE OAKS ” 


Is that necessary, William ? I hesitate ’’ 

I know. You hesitate to let her know there is any 
wickedness in this wicked world. But you can’t always 
keep it from her, doctor. It will put her on her guard.” 

To McLain Tom Alexander’s coming was a godsend. 
It made his own absence from The Manse less notice- 
able. He had gone over after the meeting at Colonel 
Judd’s to call on young Alexander as he had promised 
Jean to do. He could not do less in common decency, he 
told himself. He would keep his promise to Judd, of 
course. He had renounced all thought of trying to win 
her; but he would not be a boor, even for Judd. He 
would still go, but would let his visits grow fewer. In 
this way he could keep the letter of his promise and yet 
allay suspicion as to any sudden cause for the breaking 
off. Perhaps by throwing himself into work he might 
in time 

He never got any farther than that. He knew he 
should never “ get over it,” as the phrase goes, and he 
felt like a scoundrel to leave her thinking he had got 
over it. The memory of that night in the vestibule 
was ever smarting within him. What must she 
think ? 

“ What are you doing with yourself these days, Mr. 
McLain ? ” asked Dr. Dabney, genially, in the course of 
that visit. “ We don’t see much of you lately.” 

Jean’s face burned, but she listened for the reply. 

“ I’ve been over with the Colonel a good deal, doctor, 
— he is not doing as well as I should like — and then I 
am arranging with Mr. Bascom to look up some stock. 
He has very kindly agreed to take me around the 
country to see some that he thinks is specially fine. My 
knowledge is so limited that it is very good of him. 
I’m sure.” 

“ So it is,” said the minister, thoughtfully. ‘‘ I hear 
John is thinking of running for County Treasurer.” 

He looked up in mild surprise at the laugh this elicited. 


TOM 


195 


Mr. McLain,” said Tom, who had taken an instant 
liking to the young man his mother had warned him 
against, “ I wish you would let me go along on some 
of those trips. Td like nothing better.” 

"'Nor I ! ” McLain spoke heartily. “ I have a good 
horse that I’ll put at your disposal and we will go when- 
ever Mr. Bascom says the word. Perhaps we can go 
without him. You are a judge of stock, of course! ” 

Listening to the jests and badinage that followed Jean 
could hardly believe in the “ blue devils ” of Sunday, 
so like his old self was McLain. 

" I understand you are a member of this famous 
church choir I’ve been hearing about,” remarked Tom 
when McLain was starting. 

“Yes,” he answered, with a stinging remembrance of 
Calvin Judd’s reference to his “ church affiliations.” 

“ Jean here has been telling me about your choir prac- 
ticings, and I’m serving notice right now that I propose 
to take your place for a while as escort to the prima 
donna. I am interested in music myself.” 

“ I resign,” laughed McLain, with a quick throb of 
thankfulness that this at least had arranged itself so 
naturally. 

“ Shall you be at practice, Mr. McLain ? ” asked Jean. 
“And at church Sunday?” 

He hesitated. He had intended to give that up; but 
as he looked into her face and realized what it would 
be to give up even seeing her his resolution failed him. 
He had never promised Judd to renounce the church 
services ! The fire that had died down flamed up again. 
He would go to church. He would sit beside her. He 
would go to choir practice. He would sing from the 
same book with her, and Judd be 

“ Oh, yes,” he said, cheerfully. I’ll be there.” 

Outside, away from her, and the pall settling down 
upon him again, he realized the folly of it. 

“ The truth is, I ought to go away — ought to give 


196 THE MASTER OE « THE OAKS ” 


up the whole thing — farm, and prospects, and girl. But 
. . . oh, damn Judd ! 

He cursed more than Judd — himself and his fate and 
the folly that had brought him to these straits. That 
he, a free man, should be bound by another’s will ! . . . 
Revolt was stirring within him. Why should he submit 
to it? . . . The answer came to him with a directness 
that made the sweat stand out on his face, winter though 
it was. ... “ McLain, I could crush you with one 

turn of my heel ! ” . . . And it was true ! He could 
do it — and he would ! . . . Well, he must stay away, 
that was all — or go away. 

He did not go away ; and he did not stay away, though 
it is fair to say that he tried with such strength as was 
left in him to do both. He brought out his maps of 
Canada and again looked up Saskatchewan. ... It 
was a long way off! He might never see her again for 
the rest of his life. He tried to imagine himself there, 
wrestling with virgin soil and primitive conditions, safe- 
guarded by the Canadian Rockies in an alien land, his 
past behind him and his future ahead. He could grow 
up with the country there ; get rich, perhaps ; gain 
standing and influence, possibly. But — what was the 
use? 

Suppose he should do all this, he considered. What 
would she be doing down here while he was piecing out 
a life of substitutes up there? Living at The Manse the 
colourless life her Aunt Lavinia had led, raising chickens 
and flowers and satisfying her maternal instincts with 
other people’s children ? And when her father was gone 
— for he couldn’t live always — what would she do? 
Live alone like Miss Pattie Dandridge? Somehow 
imagination failed him. . . . Sell herself to Maltby 
after all and go abroad to share his millions and the 
ashes of his burned out life? No, she would never do 
that! . . . Would she yield at last to a love that had 
enveloped her from her childhood? This was more 


TOM 


197 


serious than the Maltby contingency, but still he could 
not bring himself to believe she would every marry Tom. 
She was too sensible to take that risk. 

Well, what then? Would she marry in time some 
good farmer around here and settle down on — well, 
perhaps on the Bascom place, which would be for sale, 
he told himself grimly, if he went to Saskatchewan? 
Wouldn’t that be the irony of fate? She would have 
a chance at the house then, and the flower garden, and 
the box borders, and the shell walks, — and could fix 
them up to suit herself. . . . Heigh-ho! What a 
fizzle life was, anyway! 

He shut up his maps and ordered his horse. He would 
not go to Saskatchewan — just yet. That much was 
definitely decided. 

'' Jean,” said Tom one night as they rode home from 
choir practice — she had been lecturing him on the sub- 
ject of his habits, for he had escaped her surveillance 
and had been drinking again, “ I wish you would marry 
me. Won’t you ? ” 

“Why, no, Tom!” Jean said, indignantly. “You 
know I wouldn’t marry you. How could I ? When you 
do as you have been doing lately I don’t even respect 
you.” 

“ That is one of your puritanical ideas, Jean. Women 
marry men every day without respecting them.” 

“Do they? Well, that’s the kind you’ll have to seek 
then. It wouldn’t do for me. You know, Tom, that I 
think a lot of you. I can truthfully say that I am very 
fond of ” 

He moved closer to her and caught at her hand. 

“ Jean!” 

His cousin increased the distance between them and 
discreetly put her hand in her muff. 

“ But the man that I really love well enough to marry 
will have to be one that I can look up to — one that I 


198 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


can lean on. Tom, don’t you know that every woman 

worth the name feels that way? . . . Well ” 

The break was sufficiently significant. 

“ Jean,” he said with shamefacedness — he was enough 
of a man to feel the lash — “ I know you can’t look up 
to me — now. I don’t know that you ever could — but I 
would always love you. You know that because I al- 
ways have loved you. And I should always care for 
you ” 

“ When I wasn’t caring for you ! ” 

'' and protect you.” 

Protect me ! Heavens ! what would you have done 
last night at protecting me? No! It wouldn’t do, 
Tom!” 

“ I know I am not worthy of you,” he said, humbly. 
It argued something for his love and the character of 
his temper that he was not resentful of her plain speaking. 

“ No,” agreed Jean, coolly, “ you are not worthy of 
any decent woman as you are now.” 

He caught at the possibility of reform suggested by 
the limiting clause. 

“ You could make a man of me, Jean.” 

When I marry,” returned his cousin with spirit, 
it will be somebody that can make a man of himself — 
and has done it. You can depend on that! ” 

“ Jean,” he said, irrelevantly, is it McLain? ” 

“ What are you talking about ? ” she parried. 

“ I know there is somebody.” 

I shall never marry,” she announced with decision, 
'' until I find a man like father — as strong in principle 
and as gentle with women.” 

“ You’ll wait some time,” he said, grimly. “ There’s 
comfort in that, at any rate.” 

Then she grew confidential, glad to turn the conversa- 
tion into safer channels. 

Do you know, Tom, there are some disadvantages 
about having such a father as I have? It dwarfs other 


TOM 


199 


men. It really does. When I come to measure up by 

him any man I have ever known that — well, that 

that wanted to marry you. Speak it out? 

There’s nothing disgraceful about it ! ” 

That thought he did (you’ll find out later that you 
don’t) — somehow he always seems too small to fill the 
niche.” 

That’s because the niche is too high,” he said, fol- 
lowing her lead. “You’ve got it in the clouds. Bring 
it down to earth and the man may look larger. This is 
a prosaic world, Jean.” 

“ It is, Tom ; dreadfully prosaic. That’s why the man 
I marry must have all the old-fashioned virtues that I 
am accustomed to.” 

“ Such as ” 

“ Oh, — such as honesty — self-control — temperance — so- 
briety — tenacity of purpose — abstinence — abstemiousness 
^ — restraint of the appetites ” 

“Go on ! ” he jeered. “ Don’t stop. Here’s a pocket- 
dictionary when you get to the end of your vocab- 
ulary. Well, at any rate, I’m honest, and you put that 
first. So I am not without hope.” 

They rode without speaking for a few rods, and then, 
as though the subject were exhausted, Tom broke 
out: 

“Say, Jean, McLain’s an awfully nice fellow! Do 
you believe he’s a Mormon ? ” 

“ No ! That is purely the product of your mother’s 
imagination.” 

“ That’s where I get my temperance — and self-control,” 
he said. And the conversation glided easily to other 
topics. An offer of marriage from Tom was of such 
common occurrence that it hardly made a ripple in their 
intercourse. 

Tom was over at The Oaks often as the weeks went 
by. He was restless and uneasy in his craving for 


wo THE MASTER OF ‘‘ THE OAKS ” 


drink and there was something about the companionship 
of the man over there that steadied him. 

McLain/' he said one day, “ they don’t know the 
meaning of the word temptation at Uncle Dabney’s — nor 
the word struggle, either ! . . . Now, you do.” 

“ Why, Tom, I never drank in my life.” 

“I can’t help it. You know!” 

Jean spoke to McLain one night about her cousin. 
Tom being temporarily out of commission as an escort 
he was taking her home from practice. It was the first 
time they had been alone since the night of Calvin Judd’s 
visit, and as they drove along the road they were both 
tingling with the consciousness of it. 

“We are very glad to have Tom with you so much, 
Mr. McLain. We feel so safe with him there. I hope 
it doesn’t trouble you.” 

“ It doesn’t. I am glad to have him come. He is a 
good fellow and I like him.” 

“ I can hardly understand your friendship — as he is 
now,” she sighed. “You have never seen him at his 
best.” 

“ Tom is another derelict,” he said with a short laugh. 
Then he added, seriously, “ I hardly think you know the 
fight he is putting up. It is terrific sometimes.” 

“ It doesn’t seem to me he is trying at all,” she 
said. 

It was not long after this that Tom went over to the 
old Bascom place in a gloomy mood. There had arrived 
that morning a box of books from St. Louis for the 
“ Tinkling Spring Library.” 

“What’s the matter with you, Tom?” demanded 
McLain, after several unsuccessful attempts at conversa- 
tion. “You’re as glum as the Sphinx.” 

Tom paid no heed to the interrogation nor to the 
comment beyond a shake of the head that might mean 
anything or nothing, and pursued his own train of 
thought. Seeing that he was not disposed to talk 


TOM 


201 


McLain spared him the effort, and they sat in silence. 
Finally Tom broke out: 

“ She ought never to marry Maltby ! Between you 
and me, McLain, that fellow is a low-down rake, with 
all his money — and his manners. I told Uncle Dabney 
a few plain facts about him when he wrote to me ” 

'‘He wrote, did he?” asked McLain, interestedly. 

“Yes, he wrote. What do you know about it?” 

“ That you had a letter from him. You are telling 
me now.” 

“You see my mother’s heart was set on making a 
match there if it was a possible thing. Women are 
queer. They are forever overlooking things at the wrong 
time. Well, for some reason Uncle Dabney wrote to 
me for information about Maltby’s character, relying 
upon my discretion — ahem! — and my family pride and 
my affection for Jean, — cousinly, you understand, etc., 
etc.” 

“ And he got it ? ” 

“Yes, sir! He got it and got it straight. I felt that 
he had a right to ask and I a right to answer. As I 
looked at it this was the time for both of us to speak out. 
He must have said something pretty forcible to my 
mother about it, for she’s thrown up the sponge in that 
fight. In fact,” he said, rather sheepishly, but with 
direct intent, “ she is backing me now in mine.” 

“ Ah ? ” commented McLain, cheerfully. This at least 
was good news. 

“Yes. She used to be dead set against it. I have 
had many a fight to get up here. You see, my mother 
is a born matchmaker and she had other designs for 
both of us. But I really believe now she would be 
willing to see Jean turn her head my way. Of course 
from a money point of view she would do better to 
take Maltby. But he is no man for a girl like Jean.” 

“Are you?” McLain could not refrain from asking. 

“ No, McLain, I’m not. I own up to that. But, by 


202 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ’’ 


Jove! I believe she could make something of me. If 
she couldn’t, nobody could.” 

McLain restrained an inclination to throttle him. In- 
stead he went quietly on with the case. 

But you admit the possibility that she might fail ? ” 
Oh, yes. I’m humble, if nothing more.” 

“ Well, suppose she should try it and fail. It wouldn’t 
be her fault, you know, that she failed — you can’t help 
a man that won’t help himself. Suppose she should take 
you with this idea a girl has of marrying a man to reform 
him — and you should go on as you are going now (that’s 
all you’d have to do) — and she realized after a while 
that she had failed — and it was too late then for her to 
go back to her sweet, pure life with her old father. — Oh, 
no, Tom, you’d better shoot her than to lead her into 
that ! She’s too good to be a drunkard’s wife.” 

“ A drunkard ! Come now, McLain, that’s putting it 
a little too strong! I could stop.” 

“ Then stop ! why don’t you ? ” cried McLain, roughly, 
before you try to get her away from a home like hers 
to the one that you could give her. What right have 
you to take a life like yours to her and ask her to share 
it?” 

Now, do you know that is exactly what she intimated 
to me herself?” said Tom, with interest. 

“ Oh, you’ve asked her, have you ? ” 

Yes, I have. And she went for me just about the 
way you are doing. Said she didn’t even respect me, 
and how could she love a man she couldn’t respect, and 
all that.” 

McLain’s face hardened. She’s right,” he said, 
harshly. “No man should try to win a woman’s love 
when he cannot command her respect.” 

“ Oh, bosh ! I’d get her quick enough if I could, and 
so would you if you loved her, whether we could com- 
mand her respect or not. You know we would. Any 
man would — unless it was Uncle Dabney, and there 


TOM 


ws 

would never be any question of respect in his case. I 
suppose everybody respected Uncle Dabney when he was 
an infant in arms. Well, some people are born re- 
spectable ’’ 

“And some achieve respectability,’' said McLain, sig- 
nificantly. 

“And some have it thrust upon them! . . . Lord! 
how I’m having it thrust upon me over at the house ! . . . 
McLain, give me a drink 1 ” 

McLain had his horse put up instead and sent Sandy 
over to The Manse to say that Mr. Alexander would 
stay at The Oaks that night. He saw that the thirst 
was upon him. Before morning a man was despatched 
for Dr. Llewellyn, and together they worked over him. 

“ McLain,” said Dr. Llewellyn, energetically, when the 
patient was safely under the influence of a narcotic, 
“ I wish this young fellow would go back to St. Louis.” 

“ Why?” 

“ He’s been here long enough. Let his mother take 
care of him. She’s the one to do it. His conduct is 
troubling Dr. Dabney. But,” seeing that McLain was 
still expectant, “ if you want the real reason it is be- 
cause I want him away from Jean. He’s in love with 
her, do you know it? and that mother of his, with a 
cold-blooded determination to save her son at all costs, 
is backing him up in it.” 

“ Do you think that will be likely to influence Miss 
Dabney much ? ” The quiet significance of this was 
not lost on the doctor. 

“No, I don’t. That’s what I am relying upon most 
to save her from it. The trouble is you never can tell 
what a girl is going to do about these things. Let her 
get the besotted notion in her head that she can reform 
a man, and nothing will do but she must try it. Others 
have failed, but she can do it! That, — with a woman’s 
capacity for self-sacrifice— oh, hang it all! I wish he 
would go home ! ” 


204 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


She never would do it, doctor,” encouraged McLain, 
remembering Tom’s confidence but respecting it. She 
has too much sense.” 

Oh, they none of ’em have any sense when it comes 
to a love affair! The way marriage is entered into 
these days makes me wonder there are not more divorces 
than there are. That’s the real trouble about divorce — 
marriage is too lightly thought of.” 

Do you think she would be the kind of woman to 
enter into it lightly or unadvisedly? It doesn’t seem so 
to me.” 

No. But she is exactly the kind that might go into 
it if she got this confounded notion of reforming him. 
You see, McLain, I have some feeling of responsibility 
in this matter. When I found out what his mother had 
sent him up here for I suggested to Dr. Dabney that 
about the best help they could give him was to let Jean 
keep him pretty well in sight. I was thinking about his 
physical condition, you know. Well, she’s done it con- 
scientiously, and by George! it’s given him the very 
opportunity they wanted. I wish you would cut in there 
yourself! You’ve been altogether too modest since he 
has been here. I’m disappointed in you ! ” 

McLain shook his head. 

‘‘ No. I’m out of the running, doctor.” 

Dr. Llewellyn gave him a keen glance, at which he 
smiled but reddened. 

‘^So? Well, I’m sorry.” 

To Dr. Llewellyn’s honest mind there was but one 
thing that could cause a young fellow like the one 
before him to drop out of a race like that. McLain left 
him to draw his own conclusions, and they were to the 
effect that the young man had dropped out prematurely 
and needed a little prodding. 

“ Well, then,” he said, cheerfully, in that case I can 
afford to unleash Gresham.” 

“ Who is Gresham ? ” McLain asked, though he knew. 


TOM 


S05 


A young fellow I’m trying to make a doctor of. I’m 
going to succeed too. He is a bright fellow — Gresham 
is, — attractive, keen as a whip, and what is better, with 
a clean record. No Tom Alexander business about him. 
I have thought of taking him into partnership with me. 
I’m getting tired of coming down here to look after 
measles and chicken-pox and old Mrs. Dunklin’s lum- 
bago. I’m thinking of sending Gresham down to attend 
to this sort of thing and the night practice and I will 
come in for typhoid fever and pneumonia. Yes, I think 
he would like to come. He met Jean last spring when 
she was in Putney visiting. He was pleased with her. 
I could see that. I think he came down several times 
last summer to see her — but I gently conveyed to him 
the impression, which I supposed was correct, that the 
land hereabouts was pre-empted. But ” 

It suddenly occurred to him that this might not be 
an altogether agreeable subject to his host, and he ended 
lamely : 

“ Say, McLain, where is my bed ? This fellow doesn’t 
need either of us now.” 

The master of The Oaks lay awake long after the 
man who had murdered sleep for him had wrapped the 
drapery of his couch about him and lain down to pleasant 
dreams. 

He had told himself a hundred times, thinking of 
Tom and Maltby, that he could give her up to a good 
man, — one that would bring her happiness and was 
worthy of her. . . . Well — the good man had ap- 
peared, it seemed — the man with a “ clean record.” . . . 
And could he? 


XVII 


McLAIN REVOLTS 

S PRING opened early that year, which was fortunate 
for McLain. He threw himself into his farming 
with desperate energy. There were no longer any 
slurs cast upon him by Mr. Elijah Coyt as one who 
made of the noble pursuit of agriculture a pastime, for 
Lige had been persuaded to give his time and his ex- 
perience to this dilettante for hire, and it was remarked 
at the store that he spoke far less carpingly of his em- 
ployer’s slackness now than aforetime. 

“ He’s a hustler ! ” was the neighbourhood verdict. 
“ He ain’t afraid of work ! ” And they liked him the 
better for it ; for hard work was the element in which this 
jury was born, and in which it lived and moved and had 
its being. Mild wagers, never to be paid of course, had 
been laid down at Henyon’s through the winter on 
whether or not McLain would stick ” — with odds 
against it. Nothing is so discredited in a community 
that has gained its knowledge through inherited tradi- 
tions as that variety of agricultural wisdom that comes 
after maturity and is derived from books. It may be 
true wisdom, and advanced at that, but if it has not 
come down by word of mouth from father to son it is 
under the ban. “ The fathers have told us ” is the 
orthodox way in the rural mind. 

It had been the common belief, expressed with some 
winks, that when the time of actual work came the book 
farmer wouldn’t be thar.” But the ploughing was done, 
corn-planting well along, and McLain was still “ thar.” 
His stock was beginning to rise. 

But if the whole truth had been known — ^and the whole 
206 


McLAIN REVOLTS 


m 

truth rarely is known — it was not so much tempera- 
mental energy that was driving the man on, certainly not 
so much a love of gain, as his fear of himself. If work 
failed him he was lost. There would be nothing left then 
but Saskatchewan. 

During the winter he and John Bascom, who really 
was a prospective candidate and a forehanded man, had 
scoured the county for stock (and constituents) — the 
best of both that could be found, for Tinkling Spring was 
in one of the banner stock counties of the State, and 
as to the other matter, John Bascom saw to it that Mr. 
McLain (and himself) went to representative men whose 
influence would count at the primaries. 

Before the coming of Calvin Judd the young man had 
greatly enjoyed these business trips. They brought him 
in contact with a number of men whom otherwise he 
might have been years in knowing or might never have 
known, and he wanted to study the people at first hand. 
He was aware of Mr. Bascom’s ambitions and was glad 
to put in an oar in his behalf in the way of suggestions 
that county officers should be men beyond reproach — 
that the country was waking up to the fact that integrity 
in its public servants was the one thing needful, etc. — all 
of which he fully held to, and some of which he hoped 
might eventually be placed to Mr. Bascom’s account. It 
is only fair to him to say that it was the incorruptible 
John Bascom he always had in mind. 

He had a natural turn for politics and he spoke with 
convincing earnestness, backed up as it was by the pur- 
chase of a good many fine animals without much haggling 
over the price. John Bascom came to count upon him as 
one of his political assets in the coming campaign. He 
himself was not a ready speaker, though a man of well- 
known probity, and McLain’s clear grasp of political 
situations and his keen way of presenting them often 
surprised him. A mutual respect and esteem was being 
cemented between the two. 


208 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


After that memorable night in January •the old zest 
in these jaunts was lacking; but life goes on whether 
we are in the mood for it or not, and we must perforce 
follow its lead. The cattle were here; the feeding must 
be done; and new animals must be added to his herd 
if he was to continue. It might not prove worth while 
to continue, but that must be tested, and in the mean- 
time — well, in the meantime, McLain kept away from 
Dr. Dabney’s, rode much with John Bascom, talked pol- 
itics to keep from thinking about more dangerous things, 
and got out of it what he could. As it turned out he 
was destined to get more out of it than he had ever 
counted upon. 

McLain dropped out of the choir after Tom left. He 
was too tired when the day’s work was done, he ex- 
plained to Jean, and Jean did no more urging. It made 
her cheeks burn to remember with what utter freedom 
and lack of reserve she had insisted upon his joining. 
Not for worlds would she do it now. A constraint had 
fallen upon them and she could not be the first to break 
through it. 

What was it that had come between them ? She 
hardly ever saw him now that Tom was gone. And it 
was not because he was busy. She knew better than 
that. Once she saw him in the back of the church, and 
he was looking at her with a gaze that fairly burned. . . . 
It was not that he didn’t care. She felt sure of it after 
that. But what was it? 

McLain should have left the church when he left the 
choir, but he could not bring himself to sever this last 
bond. He had never promised Judd that he would not 
look at her ! That was no part of his accursed bargain ! 

One day a strange man sat beside Jean singing tenor. 
He had a good voice too, and looked the gentleman. 
McLain watched him savagely. 

“ Who was the tenor ? ” he asked Mrs. Debo after- 
wards, knowing her for a born news-gatherer. 


McLAIN REVOLTS 


209 


''A Dr. Gresham, so I hear. Miss Lavinia says he 
was down at their house for over Sunday and Jean she 
persuaded him to help in the choir. Maybe he’ll take 
it regular. They say he’s talkin’ about settlin’ in this 
neighbourhood.” 

McLain said nothing more. He was thinking, '^The 
man with the ' clean record ’ ! . . . Well, he looks it.” 

That Sunday afternoon was a season long drawn out. 
He got out the maps before it was half over. . . . 
Perhaps it would be better to go after all. Things 
couldn’t keep on this way forever. . . . But what 
would he do with the place ? Give it up and acknowledge 
defeat? No man liked to do that, and still — who was 
there to care whether it were defeat or victory? 

He put up his maps and went over to see Colonel 
Judd. He had fallen into the habit of spending his 
Sunday afternoons there. The old gentleman was lonely, 
he told himself, knowing as he said it that it was his 
own loneliness he was fighting off. Lonesomeness is 
hard to bear at twenty-five or six. 

On this particular day the very spirit of unrest pos- 
sessed him. His plans were at sea. He talked it over 
with himself as he walked along the country road, forc- 
ing himself to meet present and future conditions and 
come to some decision. He could stay here, probably 
in safety, for the rest of his life, — and that life might 
drag out to the limit of Colonel Judd’s. He turned 
from the thought with sick repulsion, f Length of days 
was not always the supreme goodl at present it seemed 
the supreme evil. A benumbing conviction was fasten- 
ing itself upon him that work had failed him. He was 
not getting from it the help he had a right to expect, 
and he had tried it faithfully. He had risen up early 
and toiled late; he had not eaten the bread of idleness; 
but — was there nothing better for a man than that he 
should eat and drink? How could he make his soul 
enjoy good in his labour ”? Thus far he had only 


210 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


succeeded in deadening his soul with the narcotic of 
bodily weariness. That was something — for present 
necessities— but could a man go on that way indefinitely? 
Why, he would better be dead! ... To eat and sleep 
and rise up to labour! Was this all there was of life? 
This was vegetation. The veriest clod of humanity did 
this! And what was the use? For whom did he labour 
and bereave his soul of good? 

He hardly knew himself for the same man that had 
purchased the Bascom place and looked forward so 
buoyantly to a work of reconstruction. Where was his 
courage gone? . . . There was a quick explosive 
breath then. No, no! Certainly there was more in the 
world for him than this! To eat, to sleep, and rise up 
to labour. To eat, to sleep, and rise up to labour. Why, 
it was an endless treadmill ! A man might carry a load 
for a long, long time, up hill and over many ob- 
stacles, if there were an object in view — ^but — a tread- 
mill! Eternally climbing and never getting anywhere! 
. . . No! 

Why should he stay? Beyond these prairies was the 
whole wide world. Why should he either stay here or 
bury himself in a wilderness? A man was as much lost 
in London or Paris as in the mountain fastnesses. And 
with so much in the world to see why should he be tied 
to one spot? He had been to China and Japan, but 
there were the islands of the sea, and Australia. It 
was said that Australia was a most interesting place to 
visit. Fortunately, there was no need for the money 
question to obtrude itself. ... He could go to Aus- 
tralia if he wanted to. . . . But did he want to? 

He anathematized himself for his indecision. Why 
couldn’t he make up his mind to go — and then go ? . . . 
Well, he answered this fierce interrogatory, a man hated 
to throw up his hand and acknowledge defeat. But 
at any rate, I’m used to it,” he said aloud, with bitter 
scorn. Defeat seems to be my portion.” 


McLAIN REVOLTS 


211 


When he reached Colonel Judd’s the old gentleman 
was busy with business papers. 

“ I’m setting my house in order, Archer,” he said, 
motioning toward the desk. “ That last spell admon- 
ished me. Ah, well ! ‘ One gathereth and another scat- 
tereth abroad.’ It’s a pity when it can’t even be one’s 
own son.” 

McLain noticed that the paper he had in his hand was 
marked, “ Last Will and Testament.” 

“ Don’t do it. Colonel 1 ” he said, feeling sudden pity 
for a son disowned. Don’t do it ! Life is too short 
— and too hard ! ” 

Calvin hasn’t used me right.” The old man’s voice 
quavered with grief and indignation. 

“ No. But maybe there was something you don’t 
know about. Better forgive him ! ” 

“ Whose grand-daddy are you ? ” cried the old gentle- 
man, tartly. 

‘‘ I’m speaking as a son, Colonel. I would give all I 
possess for one word of forgiveness. But no voice 
comes back from the grave.” 

The old man’s eyes fell before the sorrowful gaze 
of the young man. He sat with mutely working lips 
and his head moved slightly in protest; but at last the 
hand which held the document relaxed, and it slipped 
into the waste basket. 

“ How’s your corn ? ” he asked, abruptly. 

“ Nearly in. But it’s hard work.” 

The Colonel looked up sharply. There was a some- 
thing in the tone he did not like. 

“ I understand they’ve been betting down at the store 
that you’ll find it too hard and give it up.” 

“ Have they?” 

There was not enough vim in the voice to suit the 
old gentleman. I tell ’em to wait and see, — that they 
don’t know the man.” 


THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


“ I am afraid you don’t yourself, Colonel. Sometimes 
I think I’d better give it up.” 

''What! Give up your farm just as you have got 
started! Stuff and nonsense! You will never do 
it!” 

“No, I don’t suppose I shall. But sometimes I think 
I’d better.” 

“ Look here. Archer,” — the old gentleman was dis- 
mayed at the young man’s condition — “ what you need 
is companionship. It is not good for man to be alone. 
The Scriptures tell us so, and my observation bears it 
out. I have a plan for you.” 

“ I am receptive to plans.” This may have been true, 
but he was hardly prepared for what Colonel Judd pro- 
pounded. 

“ How would you like to have a boarder ? ” 

“A boarder! I have a boarder? Well, your sug- 
gestion has the charm of novelty, certainly. Who would 
be my boarder ? ” 

“A nice young fellow of about your own. age — which 
is what you need.” He was thinking astutely that it 
would not be a bad idea for McLain to have a medical 
adviser near him night and day. This talk of giving 
up was most alarming. Dr. Llewellyn had communi- 
cated to Colonel Judd his fears for McLain at one time 
and a feeling of anxiety was newly awakened in that 
direction. 

“ Who is your boarder, Colonel ? ” 

“ Have you met this young Gresham that has been 
coming down here lately ? ” 

“ No.” 

McLain spoke shortly. This was confirmation. It 
must be common talk to have reached the Colonel. 

“ He’s thinking of settling here in this neighbourhood, 
I understand. Dr. Llewellyn says ” 

“ Why should a man — a doctor — want to settle in the 
country ? ” 


McLAIN REVOLTS 


ns 


Why shouldn’t he ? Perhaps he likes the country — 
as you did — or thought you did.” McLain ignored this 
thrust and the Colonel went on. I think he is coming 
as a sort of partner of William Llewellyn’s — to look after 
the country end of the practice and call Llewellyn in in 
severe cases. This is what I gathered from William. 
Well, he is trying to get a boarding place. What would 
you think of it?” 

“ I can’t take him. Why, I shouldn’t think of such a 
thing. How could I with my house in its present con- 
dition ? ” 

‘‘ Why don’t you put that house in repair ? ” asked 
Colonel Judd, impatiently. “You were full of plans for 
it at first.” 

McLain shook his head. “ Plans are not always last- 
ing, Colonel. Mine seldom come into port. They are 
lost at sea.” Then, noticing the look of perturbation 
on his host’s face, he bestirred himself. “ Where is this 
young duck staying now? I noticed him at church this 
morning.” 

“ At Dr. Dabney’s for the present. I suppose it will 
end in his staying there if he can’t get any other place. 
The good parson wouldn’t turn him out of doors, you 
know.” 

McLain did not stay long with his old friend that 
day. He wanted to be alone and think over this most 
disconcerting news. Six months ago he would have 
welcomed into the neighbourhood a young, intelligent, 
well-bred young man of about his own age as a distinct 
acquisition. But now — to have her thrown with him day 
by day and evening by evening (there was the rub), 
as she would be if this man became an inmate of the 
house, with the free and easy companionship that was 
not only possible but inevitable. The wistaria over the 
porch would be blossoming soon and she and Gresham 
would enjoy it as she and he himself had done one ye^r 


214 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


ago! . . . Well, why shouldn’t they? She was noth- 
ing to him now, and never could he! 

He had walked on past his own gate, not caring to 
give himself up either to the loneliness of his big house 
or the garrulity of his housekeeper. A footpath led 
down into the ravine over which was a substantial bridge, 
and down by the side of it was a dogwood tree just 
beginning to show promise of blossom. Farther down 
was a ''redbud.” It came to him with a pang how like 
a bower she had kept his sick room last year with dog- 
wood and redbuds. It was one of the compensations 
of country life, she had told him laughingly, that here 
one could always have dogwood in its season. . . . 
How the little unimportant things that she had said kept 
coming back to him. Was it so, he wondered, that 
people remembered the sayings of their dead? 

They had gone down through the ravine the day he 
brought her over to see the house. A tiny stream, easily 
stepped across except in time of spring freshets ran 
along through the ravine and before the summer was 
over they had made a footpath beside it, for it was an 
ideal place for a summer stroll, shut in as it was from 
the heat of the sun, and redolent of wood odours. The 
path ran sometimes on one side of the brook and some- 
times on the other, — a log thrown across forming the 
bridge. He could see her now poised on the log, balanc- 
ing herself uncertainly but disdaining assistance. He 
had thrown himself down on the side of the ravine and 
was living over those strolls. 

The stream rambled on about as it wished, and the 
ravine with it, but the general direction was toward 
Dr. Dabney’s lowland pasture, which it reached with 
gradually lowering banks, to pursue its way thencefor- 
ward in plain sight of man and beast. They had called 
it their subterranean passage, and had laughed about 
taking refuge there when Aunt Josephine’s onslaughts 
grew too fierce. In reality it formed a diagonal short 


McLAIN REVOLTS 


^15 


cut between the two places, though, strange to say, it 
was not when he was in haste that it was used — for it 
was a path designed by Nature for loitering feet. 

As the man sat looking down the dim recesses trying 
to trace in the distance the watercourse that wound like 
a thread of silver through the pinkish grey of the white 
oaks and the faint green of the maples, a flash of white 
flitted before his vision. He moved his head to catch 
it again. . . . What land bird had a wing like that? 
It looked like a gull’s, but this was no place for a gull. 
Instantly he was back in the Salt Lake Valley, the 
Wasatch Mountains on the east and the Oquirrhs on the 
west, with the white-winged birds that Utah protects by 
State statute skimming around and above him. , . . 
There it was again ! . . . Seen for a moment and then 
gone. What could it be? 

He was getting to his feet to investigate when a ripple 
of laughter floated to him — laughter that he knew. He 
stepped behind a friendly tree trunk and watched them. 
It was Jean Dabney and Dr. Gresham strolling along his 
footpath — his and hers. 

Almost before they had come into full view they 
turned and retraced their steps in a leisurely way. Evi- 
dently they were not going anywhere; it was just a 
Sunday afternoon walk — just such as he had taken 
many and many a time with her along this selfsame 
path. Many a time — but never again! Gresham could, 
but not he! He shut his teeth together and clenched 
his hands. ... It would be better to go to her and 
tell her — and then if the worst came — as it might — go! 
It would end it at any rate. 

'' Jealousy is the rage of a man,” said one who knew 
the human heart. It was a rage that possessed the 
soul of Archer McLain at that moment, and turned 
indecision into action. ... He would end the 
thing ! 

Without giving himself time to reflect — he had re- 


gl6 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


fleeted too much already, he told himself grimly, it was 
time now to act — he went home unfalteringly and sat 
down at his desk. The letter he wrote was concise and 
to the point. It said: 

Mr. Calvin Judd, Salt Lake, Utah. 

“ Dear Sir : — I will no longer be bound by the terms 
of our agreement. I ask you, in God’s name, to release 
me from it. If you refuse I shall go to her and tell 
her all, leaving my fate in her hands. I await your 
reply. 

“ McLain.” 

Calling for his horse, he posted the letter himself, and 
then as the shadows were falling, rode on and on and 
on, with a wild sense of freedom such as he had not 
felt for years. This would end the thing, one way or 
another. It might mean life, or it might mean death, 
but it would never be passive endurance again. On and 
on he went, baring his head to the soft spring air and 
thanking God for liberty. He was a man and he would 
be free! 

When he drew rein at last near his own home it was 
to map out a plan of procedure. Judd’s reply to his 
letter could not reach him at best in much less than a 
week. If the man were by any chance away from Salt 
Lake it might be weeks ; and if he were oif prospecting, 
as he often was, it might be longer still. Utah had a 
good many attractive places for prospectors which are 
remote from the mails. In the meantime, what should 
he do? Wait for Judd’s letter? ''No, by Heaven!” 
he told himself with sudden heat. He had defied Judd. 
Why was he under bonds to him any longer ? He would 
go in and try to regain the ground he had lost. Two 
weeks would be none too long to do that — if it could 
ever be done. He berated his own cowardice. Why 
had he given up to Judd in the first place? The ground 


McLAIN REVOLTS 


217 


was surer under his feet then than it would be now. 
It might be that he could never win her back. It might 
be that when he told his tale — if he had to tell it — she 
would turn away from him in horror. He grew cold 
at the thought. . . . But, in any event, he would have 
these weeks of heaven to die by! 

It was in pursuance of this plan that McLain sought 
the Tinkling Spring church that night in his buggy with 
a vacant place for one; that he walked boldly up into 
the choir after ascertaining that the tenor of the morning 
was now on his way to the town of Putney; that he 
humbly petitioned to take Jean home; and that he was 
soon established on the old familiar footing — with a 
difference. He told himself exultantly that it was ex- 
actly the same, but he knew as he said it that it was 
not true. There was a certain impalpable barrier be- 
tween them. He could not help knowing it, but as the 
days went by he was moving heaven and earth to under- 
mine it. Corn-planting waited or was left to hired help ; 
Lige Coyt began to have his doubts again; for the time 
was short. 

Dr. Dabney was frankly glad to have him come over 
again as of old. ‘‘ You have been working too hard, 
my boy,” he said, and McLain acknowledged that he 
had, but that he had seen the folly of it and meant to 
do better. It seemed good to them to hear his old-time 
way of laughing things off. 

When about a week had elapsed he was over at The 
Manse for supper, and he and Jean were on the steps 
alone. They had been down the ravine for dogwood, 
and the girl’s arms were full. 

There comes father,” she said, “ he has been over 
to Colonel Judd’s.” 

McLain’s conscience pricked him. He had neglected 
his old friend of late. 

“ Well, father,” Jean said, as the minister sank back 


218 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


in the chair the young man had placed for him, ‘*how 
is the Colonel ? ” 

Better than I expected.” 

'' Is he ill ? ” enquired McLain, quickly. 

'' No, not ill exactly. But the infirmities of age are 
telling on him.” 

“ Did you hear any news, father?” It was a joke in 
the family that Colonel Judd could always tell the news. 

Yes, I did. Something that surprised me very 
much.” 

McLain stooped over and picked up a spray of dog- 
wood from the step where it had fallen. The sense of 
impending danger was strong upon him. 

^^What, father?” 

Calvin is coming home again. He will be here day 
after to-morrow.” 

“ Again?” 

“Yes. I can hardly understand it.” They fell into 
speculation as to the whys of this quick return after 
such a long absence. 

“ It must be that his conscience hurts him, father.” 

“ I think so. And he hasn’t done right. . . . Calvin 
hasn’t done right.” 

As they talked it over the man to whom this news 
meant most sat idly tapping his mouth with the white 
blossoms of the dogwood. It served to hide his stififen- 
ing lips. To him Calvin Judd bore “ the shears of 
destiny.” 


XVIII 


CALVIN JUDD AGAIN 

S PECULATION was rife in the neighbourhood as 
to the cause of Calvin Judd’s return. That a man 
should ignore all ties of blood and friendship for 
a score of years and then find himself moved by them 
to the extent of two visits within the space of three 
months was incredible. The comments were coloured 
by the sympathies, kindly or otherwise, of the commen- 
tators, and perhaps somewhat by the amount of their 
worldly wisdom. 

“ Calvin has a good heart,” remarked Miss Lavinia 
Dabney to Dr. Llewellyn. “ I always said it would bring 
him to a sense of his duty some day.” 

The doctor chuckled. 

“ Miss Lavinia, did you ever hear about the widow 
and her tombstone down in Texas? . . . Well, Fll 
tell you about it. Calvin’s case reminds me of it. 

This lady had the misfortune to lose her companion. 
She was greatly distressed and put up a stone over him 
with a hand on it pointing heavenward, and beneath 
it the words: 

* We shall meet again! 

She survived him a matter of twenty years, but 
succumbed at last to the inevitable and was buried by 
his side. On her tombstone was placed by her direction 
a pair of clasped hands and the inscription: 

' We have met! ” 

" That was very touching,” said Miss Lavinia. 

219 


S20 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


^'Very — until some godless scamp who had compared 
dates scrawled under this: 

" ' Well, you took your time about it! ^ " 

Miss Lavinia laughed vaguely, with the rest, her sense 
of humour being rudimentary, but Jean remarked with 
appreciation, ‘‘ I always loved that story, doctor. It gets 
better every time you tell it.” 

He threw his gloves at her and turned to Dr. Dabney. 

'' I don’t quite like the look of the thing myself. I 
wrote for him the other time — urged him not to put 
it off — though he did until it suited his convenience to 
come. I can’t understand why he repeats the visit so 
soon.” 

I suspect it is conscience, William.” Dr. Dabney 
dealt in consciences and was always optimistic about 
their awakening. “ Calvin hasn’t done right by his 
father, and he knows it. In fact, he told me so. I 
think that’s, it.” 

The verdict of the neighbourhood was less charitable. 

He’s looking out for the property, of course.” It was 
a matter of much discussion in a community where few 
things out of the ordinary ever happened. Probably 
there was but one man in the neighbourhood who did 
not express an opinion; and he was the one who knew. 

Calvin Judd had sought McLain the very night of 
his arrival, tramping over to the Bascom place after 
he had seen his father safely in bed. Their talk was 
short and to the point. At its close Mr. Judd had said 
genially to the writhing man: 

“ I am going to grant you a reprieve, McLain, — a 
stay of execution, so to speak, for a fortnight. That’s 
the length of time I have planned to be here. My stay 
was a short one before, and rather unsatisfactory; but 
this time I shall remain long enough to get acquainted 
with the old gentleman again, and visit around among 


CALVIN JUDD AGAIN 


2^1 

the neighbours. I want to get their views on politics, 
and the crops, and — a few other things. You are abso- 
lutely safe for two weeks, unless you precipitate some- 
thing yourself. After that — well,” — he looked McLain 
frankly in the eye — “ it depends.” 

The man on probation ground his teeth, but was 
powerless to do more. 

Colonel Judd took his son over the next day to make 
the acquaintance of Mr. McLain, and the two men met 
as strangers. Mr. Judd took unfeigned interest in 
McLain’s improvements. 

They seem pretty permanent,” he remarked as they 
inspected the barns. “ You are not building here for a 
day, I take it, Mr. McLain.” 

It was Colonel Judd that answered, laying an affection- 
ate hand on the younger man’s shoulder — a touch that 
Calvin Judd knew would never be laid on his. 

“ Not he ! That’s not his style of building, Calvin. 
These barns will be here when Archer’s children to the 
third generation are playing under these oaks.” 

“H-m!” said Calvin Judd, which was noncommittal, 
surely. 

McLain turned his back abruptly upon the barns, and 
they followed him. 

“You haven’t done much with the house yet.” 

“ No.” The voice was husky in spite of his efforts 
at control. “ I left that — till the last.” 

He looked at his interlocutor with eyes in which there 
was an appeal. 

“ H-m ! ” said Mr. Judd again. Then he branched 
off into reminiscences. 

“ You have put in a new orchard, I see.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Archer has sound ideas about life, Calvin. He says 
he sees no reason why country people shouldn’t have 
all the luxuries in the way of fruit that land will grow, — 
that he is going to live while he lives.” 


222 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


“ That’s right ! ” said Calvin Judd, heartily. '' Life is 
transitory. Let’s make the most of it while we can.” 

When they were gone McLain went into his house 
and shut the door and cursed himself anew. 

Calvin Judd made good his promise of visiting his 
old neighbours, and wherever he went the conversation 
in time was turned deftly and without apparent inten- 
tion upon McLain. It was not difficult to do this. All 
that was necessary was to remark, as he was doing just 
now to Mr. Cartwright: 

“ There’s a new man, I believe, on the Bascom place.” 

‘‘ Yes. Young McLain.” 

“ Good neighbour? ” 

First rate. He’s a young fellow ; don’t know much 
about farming yet; but he’s taking hold with a vim. 
He is getting the place in good shape. It was in bad 
condition when he took it. Yes,” he went on with 
evident pride, ‘‘he is an acquisition to the neighbour- 
hood. He is a man of means, and he’s public-spirited. 
He’s backing me right up in my fight for better roads. 
He’s free-handed with money. He’s not one of the kind 
that wants good roads if somebody else will pay for 
them. You can depend upon him to do his part.” 

“ That’s the right sort,” said Calvin, tilting comfort- 
ably back on the hind legs of a split-bottomed chair that 
made him feel like a boy again. And the talk went on. 

A few days after this Calvin Judd made a trip over 
to Mr. Bascom’s and was persuaded to stay to dinner. 
John Bascom and he had been schoolfellows, and friend- 
ships that have their roots as far down as that are 
quickly revived. 

It was as they sat together on the old-time Missouri 
porch at the side of the “ ell,” and their hearts had been 
mellowed by reminiscences of the old days that his 
question was put. 

“Who is living on your old place, John?” 


CALVIN JUDD AGAIN 


223 


Mr. Bascom looked at him in surprise. Why, 
McLain. You’ve heard your father speak of him, of 
course ? ” 

Mr. Judd perceived that he had rather overdone the 
matter of indifference. 

“ Oh, yes. I’ve heard him speak of him — he talks 
about him by the yard — but,” he lied promptly, I never 
can remember his name.” 

McLain — Archer McLain. I knew your father 
must have told you about him. They are great cronies.” 

“You know him pretty well, do you?” 

“ I suppose,” said John Bascom, with some little pride, 
“ that I know McLain better than any man in the 
county, unless it is your father and Dr. Dabney. You 
see, I took a good many trips with him when he was 
gathering up his stock — he wanted the judgment of an 
experienced farmer, and your father sent him to me, as 
long as he couldn’t go about with him himself. So I 
have seen a good deal of him and his business dealings 
with men. He’s pretty much of a man.” 

“ How did you happen to have time to go around with 
him ? ” 

“ It was at a time when the crops were in and I had 
some leisure, and then ” — he looked a little conscious — 
“ I have an eye on the treasurership next fall, and ” 

“ I understand,” said Mr. Judd, wagging an enlight- 
ened head. “ I’ve been there ! ” 

“ McLain has a mighty good grasp on public affairs,” 
resumed Mr. Bascom when the subject of his own 
candidacy had been threshed out, “ remarkably so for 
a young man, — and a clear way of putting things.” 

Then followed a dissertation on McLain’s political 
knowledge that led Mr. Judd to remark, satirically: 

“ I wonder you don’t send him to the Legislature. 
A man like this must find his talents going to waste in 
a country neighbourhood, even as fine a one as Tinkling 
Spring!” 


224 ! THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


'' Well, do you know,’’ said John Bascom, from whose 
straightforward, honest soul satire rolled like water from 
a duck’s back, I don’t think that would be a bad idea ? 
We elect a United States Senator next session and in 
these days of bribery and corruption we need in our 
Legislatures men that can’t be bought.” 

A call to dinner prevented the necessity of a reply, 
but at the table Mr. Judd took it up again from a differ- 
ent angle. He had some faith in the much vaunted 
intuitions of woman. 

We’ve just been talking about your new neighbour, 
Mrs. Bascom. Is he married ? ” 

‘‘ No. Not yet.” 

“ Oh ! He’s going to be, is he ? ” 

“ That’s the talk,” said Lizzie Bascom. “ He is very 
attentive to Jean Dabney; or at least he was. Mattie 
Cartwright tells me she thinks something must have 
come between them lately. But I don’t know. It is 
probably some lovers’ quarrel. I certainly hope it is 
nothing more. Jean is a good girl, and I should like 
to see her do well.” 

‘‘ And you think she would be doing well to marry this 
young McLain ? ” 

‘‘ Oh, I think so.” 

“Would the marriage please the doctor?” 

“ I don’t see why it shouldn’t. He is a fine young 
man, with no bad habits, everybody says, and Dr. Dab- 
ney, I know, feels as I do that a woman married to a 
good man is happier than spending her life alone.” 

The smile of old-fashioned conjugal love and con- 
tentment exchanged between the head of the table and 
the foot wrung Calvin Judd’s heart. He had lost his 
wife at Reno. . . . He was thinking of this as Mrs. 
Bascom pursued the 'subject. If there were any two 
on earth whom God had joined together in lasting bonds 
of love, why — why should man put them asunder? . . . 
And how, if there should be a cataclysm in this neigh- 


CALVIN JUDD AGAIN 


225 

bourhood at the end of a fortnight could he who pre- 
cipitated it fail of being swept away with it from the 
esteem of these people? He found each day he moved 
, among them that he valued their esteem more and more. 
After the lapse of twenty years they were his own 
people. 

The next one to be catechized was Dr. Llewellyn. 
Calvin Judd rode all the way from Tinkling Spring up 
to Putney to do it, for he had great respect for William 
Llewellyn’s judgment. 

“ Do you share the general opinion about the new 
owner of the Bascom place?” he asked directly when 
the time came. 

“ I am not sure that I know what the general opinion 
is,” said the doctor, coolly. I don’t make up mine 
that way. But I share it if what you have heard is a 
favourable one.” 

“ It would not be likely to be unfavourable, coming 
from my father,” commented Mr. Judd, drily. “ He 
has fallen completely under the spell of this young 
man.” 

Dr. Llewellyn looked at his companion keenly. Was 
it possible that Calvin was jealous of McLain or feared 
his influence in any way? This remark looked like it. 
Well! If so, he would relieve that gentleman’s mind 
(and incidentally his own) by telling him a few things 
that he might profitably know ! 

You have nothing to fear, Calvin, from the influence 
of Archer McLain,” he said, with significant emphasis. 

Do you know about your father’s will ? ” 

‘‘ He has told me since I’ve been here that he would 
leave everything to me,” — (“ That’s what he is here for,” 
thought the doctor.) — but he has not shown me the 
will.” 

The will is all right. I’ve seen it.” 

I take his telling me of his intentions as proof that 


^26 the master of THE OAKS ” 


he has at least partially forgiven me,” said Mr. Judd, 

‘‘ but he is rather implacable.” 

“ He has had something to forgive, Calvin.” 

“ Yes, he has. I haven’t done right by my father. 1 , 
know that. And I don’t mind telling you that I realize 
it more since seeing what McLain — a stranger — is to him 
than I have ever done in all these years. It makes me 
feel a little sore sometimes.” (“I thought so,” was the 
doctor’s mental comment. ) “ But there were reasons, 

William. I have had some hard things in my life; and 
you can’t always explain.” 

“ No, you can’t. Most people have hard things in 
their lives at one time or another; and the hardest are 
usually the ones they can’t talk about. . . . But it was 
not about the new will I was speaking. Did you know 
about the one that displaced ? ” 

“ No. He told me that he had meant at one time 
to make another disposition of his property, but he 
didn’t say what.” 

Nor how he happened to change his mind?” 

No.” 

“ Well, I’m going to tell you about that, Calvin. I 
can see there is some little twist in your feeling toward 
McLain, and I shall take it upon myself to straighten it 
out. After Luther’s death your father made a will 
leaving all he had to found a ‘ home for friendless old 
people — with children or without.’ ” Mr. Judd winced. 

“ I am quoting from the will, you understand. It is no 
breach of confidence on my part to tell you this, for 
it was matter of common knowledge. You know your 
father was pretty bitter about your not coming on at the 
time of your mother’s death,” — Calvin Judd nodded — 

“ and when Luther died and you did not come to him 
in that extremity he could not forgive it. He talked 
about it freely to me, as he did to others — McLain in- 
cluded.” 

“ McLain!” 


CALVIN JUDD AGAIN 


227 


^‘Yes. It was McLain that induced him to change 
the will. As you say, he has a great deal of influence 
with your father.” 

“ McLain! ” said Calvin Judd again. Are you sure 
of this?” 

“ Absolutely. Your father told me so.” 

“ When was this new will drawn ? ” 

“ A month or so back. No, hardly so long. I don’t 
remember exactly.” 

“ H-m 1 ” Calvin Judd was visibly disturbed. But 
why should McLain interest himself in my affairs?” 
he demanded after some thought. 

“ I can’t tell you that, except that he is always for 
the under dog, and I suppose he felt that it was unjust 
for you to be cut off that way. You might have reasons 
for not coming back, he told your father, that he didn’t 
know about.” 

I had — I had,” murmured Mr. Judd, though he did 
not stop the narrative to relate what they were. 

Of course Dr. Dabney and I had used the same 
arguments, but it was reserved for McLain to make him 
see it. It was not flattering to our powers of persuasion 
but I was glad he accomplished what we couldn’t. Well 
— the result of it was that you father made a new will — 
in your favour. If he has told you about it himself 
that is no secret. I doubt if he ever told McLain he 
had done it.” 

They sat a few moments without words. Then Dr. 
Llewellyn continued: 

There is another thing you owe McLain, Calvin. 
I believe that under God he saved your father’s life 
last winter. Didn’t he write to you about it ? ” 

We don’t keep up much of a correspondence,” said 
Mr. Judd, with some embarrassment. We’ve sort of 
got out of the way of writing, you know.” 

“ I see. But it would be a good thing to get into it 
again, Calvin. He won’t be here long.” 


228 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


He related the story of the Colonel’s attack. 

“If McLain hadn’t happened over there that night, 
and stayed there, and worked with him as he did — if he 
hadn’t done a son’s part, Calvin, — your father wouldn’t 
have been here to-day. There are some things you can 
fool with, but pneumonia isn’t one of them. ... Yes, 
he has been very kind and attentive to your father this 
winter since he has been so shut in ; goes over often, the 
Colonel tells me, to play chess with him and talk politics. 
You know your father delights in politics even yet. I 
think he would have had a lonely winter but for McLain. 
I have felt very glad, Calvin,” — deliberately and firmly — 
“ that since it was impossible for you to be here, your 
father has had a near neighbour who is so mindful of 
the obligations which, as I see it, rest upon us all to 
minister to the aged and solitary.” 

Dr. Llewellyn was taking considerable satisfaction in 
thus doing justice to his young friend. 

“I appreciate it, William. I do indeed!” Mr. Judd 
may have been appreciative but he certainly was not 
happy. He was getting all — and more than all — that 
he had come for. The direction of this conversation 
had gone entirely out of his hands. 

“ You asked me a while ago, Calvin, if I shared the 
popular feeling about McLain. I don’t remember that 
anybody has ever given me his specific opinion of him. 
But I can tell you this; he will be a useful member of 
society wherever he is — in this community or any other 
— for he has one possession that will make him so. . . . 
What is that possession? The divine gift of constructive 
sympathy — if you know what that is.” 

“ I don’t know that I do — exactly.” 

“ Sympathy,” said Dr. Llewellyn, swinging back com- 
fortably in his office chair — he was in a talkative mood 
and felt the inspiration of an attentive listener, “ has 
various manifestations and not a few mawkish counter- 
feits. 


CALVIN JUDD AGAIN 


229 


“ I was assistant physician once at the Insane Asylum 
up here at Putney,” he broke off to say, and the wife 
of the Superintendent was the matron. A cultivated 
woman she was, whose cheery laugh was worth more 
than her husband’s physic for sick souls and disordered 
brains, I do verily believe. I was talking one day while 
I was there with a lady from the outside about institu- 
tional life, particularly life among the insane. 

'' ' Oh,’ she said, with a gesture of repulsion, ‘ I never 
could do anything like that. I am too sympathetic ! ’ 

'' Wel-1, — I thought of this queenly woman — the 
matron — making her daily monotonous rounds with her 
cheery smile for all, a bunch of flowers for this one, a 
book for that, a piece of embroidery or maybe a ball 
of carpet-rags for those who were beginning to reach 
out for work; — telling a funny story to one, and laying 
a soft hand on the brow of another who was not ready 
for the story; — taking this one to walk, and a weaker 
one to ride, and treating a convalescent to a visit with 
her in her own apartment; — giving of herself and her 
own vitality — constantly, unstintedly — that was what it 
was; — I say I thought of all this, and how like a ray 
of sunlight she was to those darkened lives, and I said 
to the soft-hearted lady at my side: 

“ ‘ It's a good thing everybody isn’t as sympathetic as 
you_are.’ ^ 

No, — what the world needs to-day, and has always \ 
^sjQeeded, is sympathy ; but it must be of the right kind. . . 
Life is hard, Calvin. You have found that out in your 
business if you haven’t from personal experience. I 
certainly have in mine.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Judd, “it’s hard. At times, and 
in places, it’s almighty hard ! ” 

“ And it is going to keep on being hard. So long as 
sin and disease and death are in the world there will 
be sorrow ; and those three things are not going to be 
eliminated right away. You may shut your eyes to them 


230 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


for a time — but you can’t for all time. Even the ostrich 
with his head buried in the sand is liable to have a knock- 
down blow some day! The world is getting better — if 
you don’t believe it read English history, or any other 
history — but there is quite a little step to the millennium 
yet! Now what men need is not to have their sorrows 
taken away — you can’t do that — but to have heart put 
into them, and strength, to meet their sorrows. True 
sympathy does that; and I recognize but two kinds, — 
constructive and destructive.” 

" Destructive sympathy ? ” 

**Yes, sir. The blood-letting, nerve- tapping variety 
that arouses only self-pity (than which there is nothing 
more deadening in this world) and leaves the recipient 
limp and effortless. I always try to shut out that kind 
from my sick rooms. Then there is the divine kind which 
without belittling misfortune — some misfortunes can’t 
be belittled — reaches out and gives a man a grasp that 
puts strength into his arm and resolution into his soul; 
that clears the cobwebs away from his brain so that he 
sees things as they are — that his trouble is only one 
of many, — that other men as well as he have borne 
sorrow, and that the main thing is to bear it worthily — 
and press on! 

Well, — some men and some women, but not all, have 
the gift of this kind of sympathy. McLain has it to a 
marked degree. Where he gets it I don’t know. You 
don’t often find it in man or woman who has not drunk 
deep of personal sorrow.” 

Calvin Judd was listening to all this with intense 
interest. He knew where McLain got it. 

There is something strange about that kind of sym- 
pathy. It teaches people exactly what to do. Take the 
case of this crippled boy of Drusilla Debo’s. That boy 
was in a bad way when McLain got hold of him. He 
was bitter and morose and hopeless — Abound down. He 
had a warped soul in a misshapen body. He had been 


CAL\aN JUDD AGAIN 


231 


knocked around and baited and bullied until he hated 
the whole world. When a man feels that way the world 
had better look out for him ! His infirmity cut him off 
from companions, and he had literally no resources. His 
mother couldn’t help him, for she was as bitter as he 
was, and then she couldn’t have him with her. Well, 
McLain took him in hand. He told me himself that 
the first help he gave the boy was to say after some 
sullen speech, 'Yes, Sandy, you are a dwarf and you 
always will be! Now what are you going to do about 
it?’ 

" He said the boy fairly raged to think that he too 
should taunt him. Then McLain went on to say, ‘ But 
you don’t have to have a dwarfed mind or a shrivelled 
up soul ; they can be as big as anybody’s if you will only 
let them grow.’ When that had soaked in and the boy 
felt the need of help he gave it to him. He taught him 
to read. Sandy could spell out a page in the reader, 
but McLain taught him how to read for the meaning. 
Then he got him the Youth's Companion and a few boys’ 
books — and he opened up a world to him. He unsealed 
his eyes to Nature and taught him how to search for her 
secrets, — to find pleasure in live things and green things 
and all that. Well! That boy is independent of com- 
panions now. He has them in books and the world 
around him. 

" Then McLain puts mother and son together — and 
with all that happiness the boy has developed and soft- 
ened until you wouldn’t know him for the same soul. 
His body, unfortunately, couldn’t be changed. . . . 
And his mother ! Well, she would walk over hot plough- 
shares for McLain.” 

Calvin Judd tapped his foot meditatively. 

" I don’t know what I should have done with that 
Alexander case if he hadn’t been here to help me out. 
He used to keep Tom over with him when his drinking 
fits were on and would work over and do for him as 


2S2 THE MASTER OF THE OAKS ” 


tenderly as a woman, and then when he was sobered 
off he would talk to him like a Dutch uncle. Tom told 
me about it. He said when he came to pay me, ' If I 
hold out, it won’t be your practice nor Uncle Dabney’s 
preaching. It will be McLaint’ ” 

'' He probably did that for love of Jean Dabney,” put 
in Mr. Judd. 

''He did it for love of God and humanity — that’s 
what he did it for! He was not going over to Dr. 
Dabney’s at all at that time, they tell me. It is my 
impression that Jean had refused him.” 

Mr. Judd considered this in silence. 

" Then there was your father’s case. I guess he didn’t 
undertake that for love of Jean Dabney! Oh, there is 
such a thing as disinterested kindness in this world, 
Calvin, and I am going to put an illustration of it before 
you right now. And I shall be perfectly frank about 
it too.” 

Mr. Judd wondered if Dr. Llewellyn imagined he had 
not been frank thus far. 

" When McLain came here your father was dying of 
inanition. He was greatly broken by Luther’s death 
and was unspeakably lonely. The emptiness of his life 
was enough to make one weep. He was an old man 
who had outlived his usefulness, he said, and the pathetic 
part of it was that it was true. He was simply waiting 
for the end — and the end didn’t come. Well, about this 
time McLain came into his life. I took him over there 
myself. He went to ask the Colonel’s advice about buy- 
ing the Bascom place. It ended in his asking freely 
for advice, which was as freely given. Calvin, that old 
man’s joy to find that he was still of use to somebody, 
that his opinions were yet of value, would have touched 
a stone. We had all sympathized with him and taken 
away from him all the burdens we could; but McLain 
was the only one who had spiritual insight enough to see 
that what he needed to keep the springs of life from 


CALVIN JUDD AGAIN 


drying up was to give, give of his mental stores and 
keep them in circulation. Everything he didn’t know 
about he asked your father ; he took him over there day 
after day; they planned things; they consulted together 
as two young fellows might; while perfectly respectful 
McLain treated him like a companion, poking fun at 
him now and then, and arguing with him often. Well, 
the old gentleman liked it. It did him good.” 

'' He told me himself the other day that he felt ten 
years younger than he did a year ago,” said Mr. Judd, 
in wonder. 

“ I don’t doubt it. And it is McLain that’s done it ! 
Calvin, the man or woman that keeps us up to the best 
that is in us, is the one that does us good. . . . Now 
this is what I mean by constructive sympathy. We can’t 
all have it, but we can take off our hats to the man that 
has.” 

Mr. Judd drummed on the table thoughtfully. 

“ You said a moment ago that McLain seemed to you 
to be a man upon whom trouble had done its work, or 
something of that kind. You think the work is done, 
do you?” 

“ Not finished — no. Have you forgotten the days 
when Dr. Dabney taught us that ‘ Sanctification is a 
work ’ — not an act, as we wanted to call it? Say, 
Calvin,” he broke off, whimsically, ‘‘what is the chief 
end of man?” 

“ ‘ Man’s chief end is to glorify God and to enjoy him 
forever,’ ” declared Mr. Judd, promptly, and they went 
off in a roar of laughter. 

“ How long since you’ve thought of it. Cal ? ” 

“ Forty years if it’s a day, Billy ! Don’t that old 
catechism stick ? ” 

They went off then into talk about the days of their 
youth, and the “ boys ” and the “ girls.” 

When Calvin Judd rode home from Putney it was with 
the curious feeling that he and the man he had gone 


234 THE MASTER OF “THE OAKS” 

there to enquire about had somehow changed places. 
The more he talked with McLain’s neighbours the more 
clearly did he perceive that McLain’s roots had in one 
year gone down deeper into this community than his 
ever had done, or ever would have done. . . . Strange, 
wasn’t it? . . . And why should such a man be up- 
rooted ? 

When Mr. Judd went over to Dr. Dabney’s for a fare- 
well call he found McLain on the porch with Jean. 
She took him into the house after a few minutes of 
light talk, for he had come over to see the doctor, he 
said. 

“ When do you go ? ” 

“ To-morrow, if I get through satisfactorily with some 
business I have to attend to. I thought I would run 
over for a few words to-night. Did you walk over, 
Mr. McLain? I’ll drive you home if you’d like, if 
it will not hurry you. I’ll be out in a few minutes.” 

McLain understood the polite invitation as a command. 

Any time,” he said, finding his lips dry and hard 
to manage. ‘‘ I shall be glad to ride with you.” 

If he held Jean Dabney’s hand at parting longer than 
usual and with a tighter grip — and he did — it was with- 
out knowing it. {And if there be one thing for which 
we should give fervent and unfeigned thanks it is that 
the Creator did not see fit to place in every breast a 
>yindow that would rqyeal ^1 that is hidden there, f 

The two men drove down the road in utter silence. 
When at last it was broken it was with some trivial 
question about the journey. We do strange things some- 
times when great issues are at stake. 

At last McLain said, huskily: 

“Well? Tell me!” 

The ex-sheriff surveyed the man as though he were a 
specimen impaled upon the point of his needle and held 
up for inspection. 


CALVIN JUDD AGAIN 


^35 


I don’t know that I can tell you in a word. But I 
will say this much, McLain. You have played the man 
with fate against you. It is a hard thing to do that, 
do you know it ? ” 

The man’s lips straightened grimly. I ought to by 
this time.” 

I’ve had a long talk with Dr. Llewellyn — a searching 
talk ” — he did not say who it was that had been searched 
— '' and I’ve talked with Dr. Dabney and Mr. Cartwright 
and John Bascom and others. I have done it guardedly, 
but I’ve done it thoroughly. They all give you a clean 

bill of health, McLain. And my father ! Oh, well, 

— you’ve been the son, and I’ve been the stranger. No- 
body needs to rub that in the way William Llewellyn did. 
I am not unmindful of my sins of omission now if I 
have been all these years. . . . And I don’t know that 
I have any call to constitute myself your judge.” 

McLain was breathing hard. To what did this all 
tend? 

“ I put a question to Dr. Dabney yesterday that in- 
volved your case, and ” 

The man turned white. ‘^Judd! you promised 
me 

“Yes, I promised you that I wouldn’t give it away, 
and I didn’t. I am a man of my word if I am an 
indifferent son! ... I told him of a case I knew of 
out West — a man who had got into pretty serious trouble 
and run away from it; — that I knew of his whereabouts; 
— found out by accident years afterwards when he had 
gone to a new place and was trying to lead a new life ; — 
that I honestly believed he was a repentant man and 
would make a thoroughly good member of society ; — hut 
— ^that I knew this thing, and what ought I to do ? ” 

“ Well ? ” The voice was tense. It was easy to see 
that upon the answer would hang his future. 

“ He told me to keep my hands off, — not just in those 
words, of course, but he advised me that a truly repentant 


236 THE MASTER OF THE OAKS ” 


man should be left in the hands of the Almighty. ‘ He 
will find him, Calvin,’ he said, ' and deal with him.’ . . . 
Well, the old doctor knows more about such things than 
I do, and I’m going to take his advice.” 

Judd!” 

“Yes, sir; I am going to keep my hands off. I have 
made up my mind definitely to that and you may depend 
on it. If you persist in this insane determination to 
tell the girl everything, it will result in more anguish 
to these people I am trying to protect than if I hold my 
tongue. As I look at it now there is not one chance 
in five hundred that they will ever find out about it ; but 
if you tell it all and throw yourself on the girl’s sympathy 
(as you are in a mood to do now) ” 

“ I certainly shall do it if you force me ! ” 

“ there are just about five hundred chances to one 

that she will marry you in spite of it. You never can 
tell what a woman is going to do when her affections 
are involved except that you may feel pretty sure she 
will do some fool thing! I don’t know but I will be 
serving my old friends best by keeping this confounded 
past of yours locked in my breast.” 

The man was evidently arguing the matter with him- 
self. 

“ So go ahead ! And I give you my word of honour 
that I will keep out of it. . . . But, boy ! ” he said, 
impressively, while McLain was wringing his hand and 
trying to convey his gratitude, “ you’ll not get away 
from it! Mark my words! At some time or another 
the sins of our youth come back to plague us! It is as 
the old doctor says — the Almighty has His own way of 
settling with us.” 

But McLain was not to be daunted now. 

“ Only keep your hands off, Judd,” he said, defiantly, 
“and I’ll risk the Almighty!” 


XIX 


SMOOTH SAILING 

I T was in the old summer house in the midst of the 
tangled garden that he told his love — a fitting place 
with its buds of hope and its thorns. 

From the country station, where he had said good-bye 
to Calvin Judd and waved him a fervent “ God speed, ’’ 
he had gone straight to Jean. Would she go over to 
The Oaks with him? There was something he wanted 
to consult her about. 

Yes, Jean would go, and they would take the ravine 
road. The time they went for the dogwood, she re- 
minded him, they didn’t go far enough to see much, 
but she had been there once this spring when there was 
that enchanting grey-green in the tree-tops with occa- 
sionally the pink of the redbuds, and it was heavenly! 

“ Yes,” he said. I saw you. You looked as if you 
thought it was heavenly I ” 

'' You saw me? ” 

Yes; saw you both.” 

“Now, who was with me?” she challenged. 

“ Gresham. And you had on a hat with a white wing 
or something on it that I took for a bird when it first 
fluttered into view.” 

“ Well, I did — have on that hat,” she said, wonder- 
ingly. “ Where were you ? ” 

“ Up on a bank behind a tree.” 

“ What were you doing ? ” 

“ Watching you and wishing Gresham was where he 
belonged.” 

“You absurd boy!” she said, blushing. “Will you 
never grow up?” 


237 


238 THE MASTER OF ‘‘ THE OAKS ” 


They did not talk much after they reached the ravine, 
and that little was but the fragmentary exclamations of 
two nature lovers. The trees all had their tale to tell 
of resurrection. To the man walking through them they 
were the harbingers of hope. Why should not human 
life also be revivified? It was nature’s way. 

The highway in front of McLain’s place crossed the 
ravine by means of a substantial bridge, the county’s 
pride. They clambered up the bank just before they 
reached it, and crossing the road were in front of the 
oaks that gave the new name to the old place. They 
were magnificent trunks, but bare yet, waiting as true 
aristocrats should for all the lesser gentry to arrive 
before they made their triumphal entry upon the scene. 

Well back among them, with the tangled, overgrown 
flower garden at its right, was the house. All else, Jean 
noticed, was in repair except these two; new fences 
were in evidence ; new gates swung where old ones sagged 
last year; red barns glowed in the distance; — but the 
house remained as it had been — unpainted and forbid- 
ding. 

“Why don’t you do something to this house?” Jean 
demanded, as they walked slowly toward it. “ What are 
you waiting for ? ” 

He smiled enigmatically. “ To see if it is worth 
while.” 

“Of course it is worth while. Father says it is one 
of the best built houses in the county. But it certainly 
needs overhauling.” 

“ Suppose I make you my architect. Come, now ! 
How would you overhaul it?” 

There was an old weather-beaten rustic seat on the 
lawn. They sat down upon it, facing the house, which 
really had a certain dignity of its own because of its 
massive plainness, and planned how it should be thus — ^ 
and thus — and thus. And as she talked of spacious por- 
ticoes and white columns with the old “ Queen of the 


SMOOTH SAILING 


239 


Prairie ’’ and the Baltimore Belle climbing about 
them ; of the old summer house restored and the garden 
blossoming again, he saw it all — and more, — far more — 
a sweet-faced woman in the open door to welcome him, 
and on the lawn his children playing. 

Upon this pleasant picture Mrs. Debo obtruded, bear- 
ing in her hands a tray upon which were a plate of hot 
cookies, two glasses, and a pitcher of creamy milk. 

“ I feel as if I ought to ask a blessing as your father 
does,’’ said McLain, setting the tray down between them. 

“ You irreverent creature ! ” 

** I assure you I never felt less irreverence in my life ; 
nor more thankfulness. This is the first time you have 
broken bread at The Oaks.” 

It’s cookies,” corrected Mrs. Debo. “ I’ll give you 
some to take home with you, Jean, seein’ as you like 
em. 

When the feast was over they strolled about the place 
and finally to the flower garden, in the centre of which 
was the old summer house that Major Bascom had built 
for his bride so many years ago. Jean noticed that 
everything was unchanged. Not a brier had been cut 
out ; not a shovelful of gravel put in. 

“ Why don’t you fix up this garden, sir ? Didn’t I 
tell you last summer how to do it?” 

He smiled. I am waiting to see if it is worth 
while.” 

It was genuine astonishment on her face this time. 

How can you tell whether it is worth while until 
you try ? ” 

His eyes narrowed. “ That’s true. How can one 
tell until he has tried ? One must always risk something, 
I suppose. It is time to give up when he has failed, 
isn’t it ? ” 

You won’t fail if you do with it as you ought.” 

'' You can’t always do as you ought. Sometimes you 
do as you want to — or have to.” 


240 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


I don’t know what you are talking about,” she said ; 
“but I do know that these old rose bushes ought to 
come up, — root and branch. They are blush roses.” 

“ Is that a crime ? ” 

“ It is in a garden. What’s the use spending time 
cultivating things that are not worth while after you’ve 
made them grow? With a world so full of beautiful 
things I should dig out and replant until I had what I 
wanted.” 

“I’ll do it!” 

She glanced up, startled by the intensity of his tone, 
but he was looking at the rose bush. 

^ “ Go get your pruning shears,” she said, “ and I will 
show you how to trim these others. This is just the 
right time.” 

“ No, it isn’t. It is just the wrong time. I don’t 
want to slice rose bushes. I want to talk to you. Come 
on over here to the summer house, won’t you ? ” 

She followed him, wondering at his mood. He 
scarcely understood it himself. When he brought her 
over here what he had set himself to do seemed easy 
and feasible — with Judd out of the way. He was full 
of courage, full of resolution. He had turned his back 
on the past; it was only the present and the future with 
which he would deal from this time on. To youth there 
is no day of reckoning. 

This was as he had felt. Now for some inexplicable 
reason the past was closing in on him again. He could 
not shake it off. It benumbed his will and darkened 
his understanding. Life suddenly stood out before him 
like this garden, — overgrown with noxious things — 
hedged about with thorns — a network that would tangle 
his feet and trip him some day — and trip her with him. 
He ought not to do it! He knew he ought not to do 
it — ^but 

He stood before her then and threw out his arms in 
a passionate gesture that took in the garden and all else. 


SMOOTH SAILING 


Ml 

It’s all a tangle ! ” he cried, helplessly. I can’t do 
it alone! . . . Jean, will you help me?” 

She comprehended dimly, almost fearfully, that this 
was more than the garden ; but whatever it was, he needed 
her, and because of her great love she was ready to give 
of her woman’s strength, her woman’s tenderness, to 
meet that need. 

“ I’ll try,” she said, simply ; and he caught her to his 
breast. In the bliss of that moment, with her true 
heart beating close to his, it all seemed easy again. 

When they had talked a while the sweet nothings that 
are only for lovers’ ears, she said, hesitatingly: 

Mr. McLain ” 

“ Archer,” he corrected. 

Archer, then. I have called you that a long time 
in my thoughts. It ought not to be hard. . . . There 
is one thing I want to ask you.” 

^'Yes, dear.” 

His arm tightened around her and his hands grew 
cold. It was coming. This was the beginning of the 
things that must be evaded. What is it ? ” 

Was — was it this you were trying to say that other 
night — in the vestibule?” 

''Yes; this — and more.” 

" I felt almost sure then it was ; and yet — ^ — ” 

"Yet what, dearest?” 

" I could not understand why — if ” 

" Why if I loved you I waited so long before telling 
you ? ” 

"Yes; that’s what I mean.” 

Was it becoming his habit to wait long? Certainly 
he found no prompt words now. . . . What could 
he say? . . . This was a fair question she was asking 
him. If all were to be open between them it must have 
an honest answer. . . . But what? 

" Jean,” he said at length, putting his finger tips under 


242 THE MASTER OF THE OAKS ” 


her chin and lifting her troubled face so that he could' 
look into it, “ there was a reason why I could not speak 
then — a reason that I cannot tell you even now — may 
never be able to tell you, perhaps. Do you think you 
love me well enough to trust me without knowing that ? ** 

“ It was not that you grew doubtful of your own feel- 
ings after that night ? 

“ No! ” he said, so vehemently that she could not doubt 
him. “ No — never ! ” 

'' Then I trust you. You need never tell me unless 
you want to tell. I trust you. Archer — trust you abso- 
lutely.” 

His soul went down on bended knees before her and 
his Maker pleading for forgiveness, but he drew her 
to him and was silent. 

^‘Well, land o' mercy!” ejaculated Mrs. Debo an 
hour later as she saw the two disappearing in the path 
that led to the ravine. If them two loonies ain’t gone 
off and forgot the cookies! And me out yonder makin’ 
up a fresh batch a-purpose, when I might a-been out 
in the garden entertainin’ ’em! Well!'* 


RECONSTRUCTION 


“ Sweet is the breath of the lilac, 

And the young grass bending with dew, 
And the earth has a note 
Of a song in the throat 
Of a bird 

Because of you.” 


W AS there ever such a May as that? 

Perhaps for Miss Lavinia in the days of 
long ago when young Henry Manson wooed 
her under the apple blossoms; possibly for dear old 
Dr. Dabney when he brought sweet Mary Charlton to 
his country home and they made honeymoon love under 
their own vine and fig tree. But for Jean and Archer 
McLain — never I 

They were busy days too, filled to the brim with the 
satisfying joys of the commonplace. There were endless 
intimate consultations in earnest now about the house 
and the flower garden. 

Archer McLain scandalized his man, Elijah Coyt II, 
by incontinently taking him from the field to make 
flower beds and uproot blush roses. So insane a pro- 
ceeding did this appear, so opposed to all traditions 
of a community where corn-planting gives way to noth- 
ing save a funeral procession, that Elijah II reported 
it straightway to Elijah I, and Elijah I conceived it his 
Christian duty to remonstrate. 

“ Ah-h, Lige ! ” answered McLain, going on with his 
pruning and smiling his inscrutable smile, “ one can 
always purchase corn; that costs nothing but money. 
343 


244 ? THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


But the gold of Ophir couldn’t buy the things I am 
planting in this garden.” 

And as fur as I could see,” declared Mr. Coyt, in 
relating the story of his unselfish effort, “ it warn’t a 
thing but pinks and pinies, and sech like. ... I al- 
ways ’lowed he’d peter out at farmin’. Flower beds in 
corn-plantin' time! Shucks!” 

The flower garden was finished at last, waiting for the 
spring’s quickening. McLain had felt a savage satisfac- 
tion in uprooting the briers and brambles that marred 
its visage. And when it was ready for her inspection, 
and hand in hand they walked its gravelled paths, it 
seemed to the man that the first page of reconstruction 
was without a flaw, and to the woman that it was Eden. 

The garden had been McLain’s first care because Jean, 
from her greater knowledge, had assured him that this 
could not wait; but it was not long before the second 
page was progressing under the vigorous hand of the 
master of The Oaks. Hammer and saw woke the echoes 
of the ravine, and the astonished squirrels chattered in 
the old oaks and leaped from branch to branch and tree 
to tree in their haste to tell the news to all the other 
denizens of this Druids’ temple. The oaks — a slow- 
moving, dignified folk — could hardly keep pace with 
these upstart carpenters and masons and painter men. 
They had to put on all force of sap and rootlet — with 
the sun to help — to keep in the background the stately 
mansion these hirelings were bringing into being. It 
was a busy time for all — nature’s artisans who worked 
for love no less than those who worked for gold. 

Even Goose Creek heard rumours of the goings-on 
at the old Bascom place and sent envoys to observe 
and report. 

‘‘Such doin’s!” retailed Mrs. Freno. “Money’s 
nothin’ to him. Why, he’s puttin’ closets in every bed- 
room! And the house had one when he bought it — 
that one under the stairs, you know, where Mrs. Bas- 


RECONSTRUCTION 


245 


com kep’ her preserves — but oh, no ! that warn’t enough 
for him ! Druse says he says he don’t know what twenty- 
foot bedrooms are for if it ain’t to take closets off of; 
so he’s puttin’ up partitions where they ain’t, and takin’ 
’em down where they air, till you would hardly know 
the old place. Druse says he ’lows to get in all the 
improvements it’ll take.” 

He’s plumb reckless,” responded Mrs. Ham, 

spendin’ money that-a-way ! Why, he’s takin’ up good 
solid floorin’ jes’ to put down little teensy planks — so 
wide,” — and Mrs. Ham measured off a space incredibly 
small to women who had reared their offspring with 
more or less success on the ''puncheon” floors of the 
first settlers. 

" But he’ll git to the end of his pile before long, I 
reckon, ef he ain’t already got there. Druse says he 
ain’t goin’ to git any carpets — he’ll have to do with jest 
rugs. I expect she’s plattin’ them rugs now — but she’s 
so close-mouthed ! ” 

" No carpets ! ” protested Mrs. Sam Gee. " Why, I 
’lowed he’d have Brussels ! ” 

They came very close to each other in the building of 
that home, Jean Dabney and her lover, for all the details 
were referred to the girl. " The fittings of a house are 
more to a woman than to a man,” McLain told her. 
" They make a home for her, as her presence makes it 
for him. Have it all as you will, my bonnie Jean, — 
only give me yourself.” 

June roses were budding when it was done at last, 
and when the " Queen of the Prairie ” and the " Balti- 
more Belle ” had been trained around the new pillars it 
was — well, it was a sweet, beautiful body for the in- 
dwelling of the soul of a home. As they stood under 
the roses and looked out upon their oaks they did not 
envy even the great Mr. Rockefeller. 

These were happy, busy days at The Manse too. It 


246 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


was to be a June wedding, and June — even the last of 
it — would be coming all too swiftly for the trousseau and 
the linen chest which was Miss Lavinia’s especial charge. 

Dear Miss Lavinia was in a flutter of sentimental 
delight these days. Long months ago, before either of 
the principals had been aware of the trend of their feel- 
ings, Miss Lavinia had had a vision, and the visible, 
material outcome of the vision was a linen chest, — sur- 
reptitiously begun, hopefully added to, sorrowfully laid 
aside after Calvin Judd’s first visit, but returned to with 
renewed zeal following his second. To Miss Lavinia 
a bride’s linen was her dowry; and the sentiment that 
had been denied utterance in her own blighted romance 
blossomed out in napery, hemmed and initialed and laid 
away in sweet lavender for Jean. 

Through the bustle of those spring days Dr. Dabney 
pursued the even tenor of his way, — a little more quiet, 
a trifle tenderer of the girl, perhaps, and inclined to 
retire into his study away from the pervading spirit of 
cheerful activity. He told himself frequently that it 
was the way of Nature; he would not have it other- 
wise; it was very gratifying that she would be so near 
him ; a cause of thankfulness that she had chosen wisely. 

He had had in his study one interview with the young 
man which had sent McLain from that gentle presence 
white and nerveless; but that one interview is perhaps 
always a trying one to both parties. After it, it was 
always “ Archer, my boy,” with a pride and tenderness 
that somehow made one think of the son that was not — 
that had never been except in dreams — but whose incar- 
nation was to come in this stalwart young man. After 
that interview McLain came and went upon the familiar 
footing of a son of the house. 

And the last of June was near. 

Unknown to himself the successful transformation 
that had taken place in the old Bascom place had added 


RECONSTRUCTION 


247 

to the esteem in which McLain was held in the com- 
munity. It was held to be proof positive, for one thing, 
that he had cast in his lot with them permanently (there 
had always been doubters as to this) ; besides which it 
was admitted that he had added something to the neigh- 
bourhood assets of which they might all be proud. He 
came to be spoken of as a rising young man, who spent 
money freely — too freely some of the old farmers 
thought-— iDUt always got a return for it. And it was 
only natural, since human nature is what it is, that his 
popularity was enhanced by the feeling which was grad- 
ually getting around that with all his free-handedness 
he never allowed himself to be imposed upon. 

“ He's nobody’s fool, I can tell you,” said one who 
had endeavoured to make him his. “ He looks easy, 
but ” 

The hiatus told more than words. 

No,” said another, that there smile of his is en- 
couragin’, but it don’t always mean he’s givin’ in.” 

“ Ever try to sell him a horse ? ” asked Job Barclay. 
It was down at Henyon’s they were talking. Job was 
a prospective candidate for County Collector and was 
already visiting the country stores. He was fond of a 
joke, even when it was on himself, which proves that his 
love was genuine. He was known as a shrewd dealer. 

^*No. Did you?” 

‘"Ye-eh.” The company waited. “You see I heard 
he was needing horses soon after he came here and I 
knew I was needing cash, and when it come to me in 
a roundabout way that he liked the looks of my mare 
Jule I made up my mind I’d try to sell her to him.” 

“ That mare you been ridin’ round here for the last 
forty years. Job ? ” 

“ Same one. I bought her from Colonel Judd ten 
years ago, and she was — some years old then. . . . 
Well, I took Jule and combed and curried her till she 
didn’t know herself from one of her own colts. Oh, 


248 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


I did a good job! I rubbed her down and slicked her 
up and plaited her mane and tail to make ’em wave, 
for thinks I, ‘ A youngster like him will be all for 
looks,’ and Jule is a fine-lookin’ animal, you’ll have to 
admit that . . . yes, for her age, of course. And by 
George! when I got her over there she stepped around 
as young and frisky as if she knew her part and was 
ready to act it! I put a fancy price on her ” 

“How much. Job?” 

“ Never mind how much! It was good and plenty — I 
won’t deny that — for I knew he had money and I didn’t, 
and I had experience and he didn’t — and I thought it 
was nothin’ more than neighbourly to trade. He seemed 
pleased with her until I mentioned my price. 

“ ‘ Ain’t that a pretty good figure for an animal of 
her age?’ he says, opening her mouth as cool as if he 
hadn’t done another thing all his life but look at horses’ 
teeth. ^ How old did you say she is ? ’ ♦ 

“ ' Oh, she’s not a right young mare,’ I says. * I ain’t 
sellin’ her for a filly. She’s seasoned,’ I says. ‘ You’ll 
not have to break her,’ — I could hear him chuckle — ‘ but 
she’s a good mare and I’m a-holdin’ her for a good 
price.’ ” 

“Well?” said one of the crowd as he stopped. 

“ Well, sir. I’m still a-holdin’ her ! I didn’t care any- 
thing about his lookin’ in her mouth. It kinder tickled 
me. I thought he was just try in’ to show off. 

“ ' How old do you make her ? ’ I says. 

“ ' About twenty — perhaps not quite so much,’ he says. 

“ Well, gentlemen, you could have knocked me down 
with a feather! That mare was nineteen past. He 
went over her exterior then and picked out her weak 
spots as neat as a horse doctor diagnosin’ a case. When 
he got to her interior I give it up. The next time I 
set out to sell a ' seasoned ’ horse I’m goin’ to tackle 
some of you old moss-backs.” 

That story was appreciated. It got around and added 


RECONSTRUCTION 


249 


to McLain's reputation as a shrewd fellow. A man 
that could beat Job Barclay at his own game knew a few 
things. 

It got to McLain at last, and nobody appreciated it 
more than he, for nobody knew the true inwardness of 
it as he did. Colonel Judd had told him the mare's 
age and her weak points a few days before Mr. Barclay 
brought her over. McLain knew no more about a 
horse’s teeth than about the grinders of the mastodon. 

The dominant party in the county of which Tinkling 
Spring was a part was in bad shape that year. Upon 
most of the county offices it was united, but there was 
a fight on over the Representative that threatened to 
result in the overthrow of the party. Jetf Trades was 
one of the would-be candidates, and Jeff was not pop- 
ular. In fact, he was so unpopular that his own party 
could be depended upon to knife him at the polls. There 
were some ugly stories about Trailes's record away back. 
Moses Tyler, the other aspirant, was equally obnoxious 
to many who declared openly they would throw the 
election to a Republican before they would be repre- 
sented by a “ shote " like Mose Tyler — an ignoramus 
who talked in public about the “ island of Alaska " and 
the “ VhiWponies” The party of Lincoln was a negli- 
gible quantity in that county in ordinary years, but one 
could never count upon anything when there was a split 
like this. 

'' What we want,” said Colonel Judd, tersely, to John 
Bascom and Mr. Cartwright who had come in to talk 
over the situation with him, “ is a dark horse.” 

The Colonel, even in his declining years, was an astute 
politician. 

You mean ” 

I mean a man that is out of this fight entirely— one 
that each faction will support for the sake of defeating 
the other. As I see it that’s our only show.” 

‘‘ But where would we get such a man ? ” asked Mr. 


250 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


Cartwright. “ Pretty much everybody is lined up on 
one side or the other.*’ 

And in the casting about that ensued there did seem 
to be a decided lack of legislative timber. 

I’ll tell you a man that could do it if he would,” 
said John Bascom, who had been doing more thinking 
than talking. “ He’s not so very well known ” 

“We don’t want one that’s too well known,” inter- 
rupted the Colonel. “That’s one trouble with Trailes.” 

“ Who is your man ? ” demanded Mr. Cartwright. 

“Young McLain.” 

The two men sat in thought. 

“ H-m ! ” said Mr. Cartwright at last. “ Do you know, 
Colonel, I don’t think that would be a bad choice ? ” 

“No, sir! No, sir! . . . No, sir, it would not.” 

There was strengthening conviction in the Colonel’s 
voice. “ He could do it, sure as shooting ! But would 
he want it?” 

“ Why shouldn’t he ? He is young and ambitious ; 
and coming to him unsought, as this would ” 

“ Have you had any talk with him about it ? ” 

“ Not a word.” 

“ How did you happen to think of him ? ” asked 
Colonel Judd. 

“ Well, I’ve thought a good many times when we 
have been riding around the country together and I was 
listening to his talk that I would like to be represented 
by a clean, clear-headed young man like him. But I 
can’t say I ever thought of him as a possibility at this 
time until — why. Colonel, it was Calvin that first put 
that notion in my head.” 

“ Calvin!” 

“ Yes, sir. Calvin suggested to me when he was here 
last that he wondered we didn’t send McLain to the 
Legislature.” 

“ H-m ! ” breathed the Colonel. “ I am surprised at 
that.” It was evident that he was also pleased. 


RECONSTRUCTION 


251 


''Yes, sir, that’s what he told me. I didn’t think 
much about it until you began talking about a dark 
horse — a man the people knew something about, but 
not too much. It occurred to me that McLain was in 
exactly that position. We don’t know much about him, 
but what we do know is very much to his credit. I 
can’t think of a thing that can be brought up against 
him. He has made a lot of acquaintances in this county 
and not an enemy. I never saw such a fellow for 
making friends.” And again the story of their business 
trips was recounted. 

He’s a good mixer,” agreed Mr. Cartwright. 

‘‘ Then,” pursued Mr. Bascom, it isn’t as if the 
man was transient here. He’s bought his place and 
put a lot of improvements on it. He is known as a man 
of means and standing. Of course he hasn’t lived here 
long, but ” 

‘‘ But his interests are all identified with ours,” finished 
Mr. Cartwright. 

‘'That’s it! He’s a farmer, McLain is, just like the 
rest of us. And he would have the farmers’ interests 
at heart. You know they don’t all have.” 

" His connection with the Dabneys would help,” said 
Colonel Judd, thoughtfully. " As Dr. Dabney’s son-in- 
law he will have so;ne claim to recognition.” 

" He won’t need it,” Mr. Bascom predicted. “ He 
can stand on his own merits, that man can.” 

" We wouldn’t feel ashamed of him anyway,” 
chuckled the Colonel. " You wouldn’t hear him 
descanting on the ' Philiponies,’ and the ' island of 
Alaska.’ ” 

"You wouldn’t hear Mose Tyler, for that matter,” 
rejoined Mr, Cartwright, drily. " They say Mose won’t 
so much as mention a horse or a mule for fear of turning 
the conversation toward ponies/^ 

" Well, what do you think. Colonel ? ” asked Mr. Bas- 
com, after further talk. " Shall we see McLain and put 


252 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


it up to him — that is, sound him on the subject and see 
how he feels about it ? ” 

“ I should. And if he is inclined to balk send him 
over to me. But he’ll know his own mind. I think I 
would speak to Major Davidson and perhaps Adoniram 
Freno about it first. Adoniram will know about the 
people down in his section.” 

Well,” said Mr. Bascom, rising, I can’t give up 
another day to this, Mr. Cartwright. Suppose we go 
over and see Major Davidson now, and if he thinks 
favourably of it we will get him ” 

‘‘ And Adoniram. I should certainly talk with Ado^ 
niram. Don’t forget that the votes of Goose Creek 
count for as much as yours; and Adoniram swings a 
good many of them in the primaries. Of course,” the 
Colonel added with a chuckle, if McLain is nominated, 
Drusilla will see that Goose Creek does its duty in 
November I ” 


XXI 


THE LURE OF POLITICS 
RCHER McLAIN was enjoying the evening hush 



and the smell of the freshly cut grass on his lawn 


-L A. when Mr. Bascom, Mr. Cartwright, and Major 
Davidson appeared on the driveway. He took it to be a 
neighbourly call and rose to do the honours, wondering a 
little how they happened to be in company. He was 
not long left in ignorance. 

When their business was made known he went white. 
His tongue refused its office. It seemed incredible to 
him that they should be in earnest, and yet he could not 
think of these serious-minded farmers in connection with 
a practical joke. They soon left him in no doubt of 
their sincerity. 

“ You are unprepared for this, of course,” said Mr. 
Cartwright, after McLain had stammered out his sur- 
prise, and for my part I would rather you would be. 
This is a case of the office seeking the man, Mr. McLain. 
It does not often happen in these days, if it ever 


did.” 


They went into the situation in detail as they had 
done at Colonel Judd’s. 

‘‘ I understand it, gentlemen,” McLain said, at last, 
and I thank you for your thought of me in this con- 
nection. I should be glad and proud to serve you,” — ^he 
stopped — “ but I am not the man for the place.” 

“ You must allow your friends to be the judge of 
that, Mr. McLain,” suggested Major Davidson, who had 
spoken but little. “ You are over-modest.” 

‘‘ Why aren’t you the man for the place ? ” demanded 


253 


254i THE MASTER OF THE OAKS ” 


John Bascom. “ I have been telling them a different 
story from that. I say you are just the man for the 
place.” 

“ I certainly appreciate that, Mr. Bascom.” McLain 
spoke with deep feeling. He had a profound respect 
for John Bascom and his endorsement was no light 
thing to him. But — I think I am right about this. 
I have been among you too short a time for you to 
honour me thus. I — I am not well enough known. At 
a later time perhaps ” 

My young friend,” said Major Davidson, impres- 
sively, ‘‘ the time for a man to serve his country is when 
his country needs him. When you are ready, that time 
may be past. This is a crisis in our county politics.” 

If it is votes you are thinking about,” supplemented 
Mr. Bascom, who, being a prospective candidate himself, 
knew that this phase of the subject was a burning one, 

I will say this : you have made a lot of friends in this 
county in the year you’ve been here, Mr. McLain — one 
way and another. You would get help where you would 
least expect it. They would stand by you to a man 
down on Goose Creek, Mr. Freno tells me, some of 
them that have never so much as seen you.” 

'' On Goose Creek ! ” said McLain, amazed. “ Why 
should they stand by me on Goose Creek ? ” 

“ Because of your generous dealings with Drusilla 
Debo and that crippled boy of hers. You know Drusilla 
was from down that way, and she goes back occasionally 
now ! They are clannish down on the Creek — they don’t 
forget either friend or foe. I believe you could make 
it, McLain.” 

‘‘ And we need more men of your kind — incorruptible 
men — in the Legislature,” Mr. Cartwright said. ‘‘ We 
elect a United States Senator this session. We want 
men to whom money doesn’t offer a temptation.” 

'' I should have one qualification then,” said McLain, 
grimly. 


THE LURE OF POLITICS 


255 


You have a good many other qualifications,” they 
assured him, and proceeded to set them forth. 

At first, remembering the limelight, what they pro- 
posed seemed to the man a monstrous impossibility, but 
a thought long dwelled upon oft changes its aspect. 
The longer they urged him the more attractive did this 
proposition become in his eyes and the less hazardous. 
Besides, when did not a spice of danger quicken the 
blood of a young man? 

They were evidently getting together, for according 
to a well-known law of human nature, the more he 
demurred the more eager did they become (realizing 
that his reluctance was unfeigned) to have him run. 
It was true that they had not known him long, Mr. 
Cartwright agreed, when he put this again and again 
before them, but his life among them spoke for itself. 

“ And a man of your age,” said Major Davidson, who 
was well down the slope, hasn’t had time for a political 
past. It’s all future with you young fellows.” He 
sighed unconsciously, feeling the burden of years. 

Of course you understand,” Mr. Bascom explained, 
“ this is only preliminary. We simply want to find out 
to-night if you will consider it. Otherwise it wouldn’t 
be worth while to organize for you. But you will ? ” 

I couldn’t answer that definitely to-night, Mr. Bas- 
com. I really couldn’t. I will say this much — that I 
feel strongly drawn toward it, but I should have to 
take it under advisement.” 

Of course, of course. Perhaps you might like to 
talk it over with Colonel Judd?” 

“ I should. And — Dr, Dabney.” 

Certainly. That’s perfectly right and proper. 
You’ll give us your answer in a few days? ” 

“ I will,” said McLain, firmly. And the men rode 
hopefully away. 

When they were gone McLain went back to his former 
position, but to a new and startling train of thought. The 


256 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


air was full of the cloying sweet of the locusts in the back- 
yard; the katydids were starting their evening duets; 
down in the ravine the tree toads were sending forth 
their guttural bass; — but he was oblivious to the things 
of sense. 

The man was profoundly moved by what had oc- 
curred. It was far more to him than simply entrance 
into the political arena. That in itself was a small 
thing — though years ago he had had a strong leaning 
toward political life. But that his neighbours, among 
whom he had lived for more than a year, with whom 
he had had business dealings of various sorts should 
come to him with this evidence of their confidence seemed 
proof that he had regained his place in the world. They 
trusted him! He could have wept as he said the word, 
from excess of joy that the intangible thing it stood 
for was his once more. How lightly do we esteem the 
confidence of our fellow-men until we find it forfeited, 
— when to the uncalloused soul it straightway becomes 
the weightiest thing in all the universe! . . . They 
knew him, and they trusted him. They came to him 
because they trusted him. And by the Eternal! — he 
said it reverently, looking up as if uttering a vow — their 
trust should never be betrayed! 

At first it was the joy of knowing he was trusted that 
transcended everything else. He threw back his shoul- 
ders as if he were casting oif some old man of the sea. 

Then his thoughts turned to the proposition they had 
brought him. It offered to a man of his make-up an 
alluring temptation. It meant action, responsibility, 
power; and these were the things, he knew now, that 
his soul thirsted for. Would he ever have been content 
to spend his days on this farm? He had told himself 
he would — that he would ask for nothing more; but 
at this moment he felt that he had been self-deceived. 
He had been conscious at times, in the building up of 
this place, that it was not so much the desire for a good 


THE LURE OF POLITICS 


S57 


farm that was driving him on as a fierce longing to do 
something, to make something move. 

And after all, here he was only working with physical 
forces and the brute creation. To be a man among 
men — to wrestle with the questions of the hour and do 
battle for the right as one might always find opportunity 
to do in legislative halls; to throw himself into the 
world’s fight — that was what he wanted! To impress 
his personality upon the history of his time, of his 
adopted State, of the Nation, perhaps — for thought leaps 
all barriers, and he was following the lead of this open 
door 

Ah! . . . That would be to live! 

And why shouldn’t he? After all, why shouldn’t 
he? . . . He threw out the question defiantly. 

Then a benumbing doubt, a fear that chilled his blood 
crept over him. The life of a political candidate was in 
a fierce light ! Would his stand it ? . . . Dare he take 
the risk? . . . He gnawed his under lip — a trick he 
had when in deep thought. Major Davidson had said 
he was too young for a past — no, that wasn’t it — he had 
said he was too young for a political past. ... Yes 
. . . that was diflferent. Any kind of a past might be 
raked up as capital in a campaign. Suppose 

The sentence was never finished, but cold chills ran 
up and down his spine at the thought of what a cam- 
paign search might unearth. . . , No, it wouldn’t do! 
It would be better to give up the whole thing than to 
risk that! Fortunately, he had not committed himself. 
He had only to say to Mr. Bascom or one of the others, 
that he had decided he could not sacrifice his pecuniary 
interests at this time, just as he was starting, to make 
the run. Some other time, perhaps. That would settle 
it in a dignified and still an indefinite way. Then after 
he had proved himself in this community, when he could 
point to a record here that would satisfy a political 
opponent — it would be time enough then to consider 


258 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


public life. Yes, that would be better. He was too 
young anyway. 

Then perhaps because he was young, having the dar- 
ing of youth and lacking the caution of years; because 
it was a thing he wanted and believed he could secure; 
because of his conviction that he had expiated his sin, 
whatever it was — he put his fears and doubts and premo- 
nitions behind him, and struck his knee with his clenched 
hand, and cried: 

“ I will do it ! ril take the chances ! Am I to go 
through my whole life in bondage to one mistake? . . . 
No ! by Heaven ! ” 

He had recently put in a telephone so that Jean when 
she came to her new home should have the privilege 
of talking to her father and Aunt Lavinia every day. 
He went to it now and called her up. He would be a 
little late in coming over to-night. ... No, nothing 
wrong. Everything was all right! . . . And Jean at 
the other end smiled to herself to hear the exultant 
ring in his voice. . . . He had to see Colonel Judd 
about something before he came over. That was all. 
Good-bye. 

The interview with Colonel Judd was short but con- 
vincing. McLain had determined before going over that 
he would profess indifference to the proposition in order 
to bring out the Colonel’s real position in the matter. 
Colonel Judd’s opinion was never difficult to obtain. It 
certainly was not now. 

“ In my judgment, you would be very foolish to turn 
down this opportunity,” he said, emphatically. “ You 
have a strong liking for politics, and taste and talent 
usually coincide. You have in a marked degree the 
ability to influence men. Dr. Llewellyn and I have often 
talked about it. That’s a gift, and it is one that a man 
ought to turn to account. In the halls of the Legislature 
it would be worth something to you. Besides that, you 
are what the country needs — an upright downright rep- 


THE LURE OF POLITICS 


259 


resentative of the people. You wouldn’t go to the Legis- 
lature to feather your nest. I couldn’t say as much of 
Jeff Trailes. As to the other man — I have never heard 
Mose Tyler’s honesty called in question, but he has 
no sense — that man! And you never can depend on a 
fool ! . . . There is no question in my mind that you 
can get this nomination if you want it. And with the 
nomination your election is secured.” 

“Your advice, then,” said McLain, at length, “is to 
go in.” 

“ By all means. The time to serve the people is when 
the people want you.” 

“ On your head be it then. Colonel,” said McLain, 
rising, “ on yours and the rest. I’m in the hands of 
my friends.” 

“You’ll win! I’d stake my farm on it.” 

Jean was on the porch waiting for him. 

“Is Colonel Judd ill? You don’t look as if you had 
had bad news.” 

“ No, he is not ill. It is not that. And I haven’t 
any bad news.” He drew her down to the step beside 
him. “ Sit down here by me. I hate those rocking 
chairs ! Do you know it is only six days until we will 
be sitting on our own steps? Not quite a week! ” 

“Oh, dreadful! Was that what you wanted to tell 
me? And did you think I had lost count since this 
afternoon when you told me the same thing ? ” 

“ Did I ? Well, you see I’m saying it to myself all 
my spare time now.” 

“ I haven’t any spare time,” she declared. “ I ought 
to be doing something this blessed minute. Could you 
substitute Aunt Lavinia while I write a letter ? ” 

“ Not well,” he said, tightening his hold upon 
her. 

“Not even father? Father is a much better talker 
than I am.” 


260 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


I don’t want a talker. I want a listener. I have 
something to tell you.” 

" Really, have you ? What is it ? ” 

How would you like to spend the next two winters 
in Jefferson City?” He held her off so that he could 
see her face. 

“Jefferson City! Why, what do you mean?” 

“ I mean that you may be asked to go there with the 
next Representative from this county.” 

“Why, Archer McLain! You are not going to the 
Legislature ! ” 

“ That remains to be seen. I am not elected yet. 
Don’t order your gown for the Governor’s ball! In 
fact, I am not nominated. But ” 

“But what?” 

“ I have been asked to allow my name to go before 
the primary, and I have come over to ask the gracious 
permission of the Princess.” 

He raised her hand to his lips. 

“ Oh, Archer ! wouldn’t that be fine ! Tell me all 
about it.” 

He related the occurrences of the evening in detail, — 
the proposition brought by the men and their arguments. 

“ What did you tell them?” 

“ That I should have to take a few days to consider 
it. I had to talk it over with you and your father, 
you know. Your life is bound up with mine now, 
dearest. It is what shall ‘ we ’ do — not ‘ I,’ as it once 
was. . . . And so you are pleased ? ” 

“Why, I am delighted! And, Archer, it isn’t just 
that I want to spend the winter at the capital, though I 
should like that too, because I have so many friends in 
Jefferson City. I should enjoy it, of course, — any girl 
would — but the thing that delights me most is that 
you should have been honoured in this way. Don’t 
you feel that it is an honour to have this come to 
you unsolicited ? ” 


THE LURE OF POLITICS 261 

I certainly do,” he said, gravely. It is an honour 
that I do not merit.” 

“You do merit it! It would not have come to you 
if you didn’t. That is why I am so proud of it — and 
of you ! ” 

The praise and adulation of the woman he loves is 
very sweet in a man’s ears. McLain felt his last doubts 
dissolving beneath the warm sunshine of her faith. 

They talked it over in all its bearings upon their lives. 
She was so familiar with the capital that she even knew 
where they would want to board, and perceived instantly 
that this would necessitate an addition to her trous- 
seau. 

“ Jean,” he said, cautiously, “ don’t go upon the pre- 
sumption that it is settled until we know. I don’t even 
know that I am going to run. But I’ll tell you what 
I am going to do.” 

“ What?” 

“ I am going to let your father decide it.” 

“ Father 1 ” she exclaimed. “ Why should father de- 
cide it?” 

“ Wel-1 — to tell the truth, I am a little in doubt about 
the wisdom of it, Jean. I want to do it, but I don’t 
know whether it is the best thing to do or not. And I 
don’t want to make any mistake. I have a sort of 
superstitious feeling that your father will tell me right. 
He knows me.” 

“ He will tell you what he thinks is right. You can 
depend on that.” 

“ I have a feeling that his decision will be right. If 
he advises against it I don’t — think — I shall go on with 
it.” 

“ Let’s go and ask him ! ” she said, jumping to her feet. 

''You can’t go! No, indeed! This decision must be 
an unbiased one, and your face as it looks now would 
bias a stone.” 

“ I’ll go up with you then and stay outside.” 


262 THE MASTER OF ‘‘ THE OAKS ” 


'' All right ! Come on.’’ 

She tiptoed beside him and waited in the hall. '' Don’t 
keep me waiting too long,” she whispered as he rapped. 

“ Come in,” called the minister. 

McLain left the door ajar. 

“ Ah, it’s you, is it. Archer? Where is Jean? ” 

'' She was downstairs a moment ago. I came up to 
ask your advice about something.” 

The minister took off his reading glasses and gave 
attention. 

It was not without some inward trepidation that 
McLain put the case before him, for Jean’s enthusiasm 
had kindled his own. The office of Representative 
seemed to him a more desirable one than when he came 
over. Dr. Dabney put in a question here and there and 
then was silent. 

Why had you any hesitation about accepting ? ” he 
asked. 

McLain reddened. '' I have a feeling that I am not 
well enough known in the community,” he said. 

But if they think you are — it is to represent them, 
you know — and they are men of good judgment, all 
three of them. I look upon this as an opportunity for 
usefulness, and an opportunity is not a thing to be lightly 
turned away from. Unless you know of some reason 
why you should not enter this race, I should say — 
do it.” 

There ! ” cried Jean, throwing the door open and 
rushing up to him. “ I knew he would say it ! ” She 
perched herself on her father’s chair and threw her arms 
around his neck. ‘‘ Oh, daddy, isn’t it fine ! ” 

That settles it,” said McLain, quietly, nodding to her. 

‘‘ And, father, you will come over to see us, won’t you, 
while we are there? . . . Yes, I mean if we go, of 
course, Archer! I know it isn’t settled. . . . And, 
father, we will go over to the Capitol together and hear 
Archer speak I ” 


THE LURE OF POLITICS 


263 


She supposed that Archer’s speeches would be the 
main feature of the next session. 

They talked it over at length, and McLain found the 
last vestige of his doubt as to the wisdom of the thing 
ebbing away. So do our wishes give colour to our 
hopes — while hope deepens to conviction. 

Only six days more ! he told her again at parting. 
“Next Thursday you are mine!” 


XXII 


THE LETTER 

X X ERE'S a letter for you, sir.’’ 

I — I The horse shied as the misshapen figure of 

A A the hunchback emerged from the shadow of 
the horse-blocks. 

Hello, Sandy! You haven’t waited all this time just 
to give me a letter ? ” 

“ I forgot to give it to you at supper, and I ’lowed 
maybe you’d want to see it soon as you come. I wan’t 
sleepy.” 

McLain laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder as he 
would have patted the head of his dog, and the cripple’s 
face was illumined. The caress paid him for his vigil. 

Thank you, Sandy. It was very ‘ clever ’ of you, 
as you people say. But you mustn’t do it any more. 
After this if I am not here when I’m due, you are to 
go to bed and I’ll take care of Milo myself. I can’t 
have you losing your beauty sleep on my account. But 
now that you’ve done it, rub him down a bit before you 
put him up. I rode him rather hard.” He had indeed 
ridden him fiercely, exultantly. 

When they were gone he sat down on the steps of 
the portico. It was too warm to go in, late as it was. 
The blood was coursing riotously through his veins. It 
seemed to him that he should never want to sleep again 
— so alive did he feel. He would be content to sit here 
forever under the stars, dreaming dreams of Jean and 
the future. 

His future ! The word thrilled him as even her name 
did not. He had thought that for him the future, as 
264 


THE LETTER 


265 


a man counts it, was a dead thing — a valley of dry bones 
where lay the slain, — Reputation and Hope and Oppor- 
tunity. For five long years he had walked in this valley; 
had walked and talked with its grisly inhabitants; and 
to the voices that asked him mockingly, Can these bones 
live ? ” he had answered, not as the prophet, Lord God, 
thou knowest,'’ but from the black depths of his humilia- 
tion, “ No ! This is past help of man or God.” 

But now — even within a few short hours — the dry 
bones had begun to stir; flesh and sinews were rehabili- 
tating them; they took on the semblance of things he 
once had known; and as in the days of creation the 
breath of life was breathed into their nostrils and they 
became living souls. It was a miracle! His valley was 
peopled again, not with the ghosts of what had been but 
with warm flesh and blood that walked beside him. 
Hope whispered to him; flowers sprang up on every 
side; the ecstatic note of the song bird trilling to his 
mate was sounding in his ear; Opportunity smiled and 
beckoned to him — how blind were they who said she 
comes but once! 

That the confidence of his friends and neighbours was 
his, as evidenced by their proffers of support, and as 
shown in what Dr. Dabney and Colonel Judd had this 
night said to him, touched McLain with a strange humil- 
ity. A sense of the nearness of God — his mother’s God — 
stole over him. His trangression had been blotted out 
and his sin was remembered against him no more. A 
place in the world was to be his again. A good man 
had given him his chance, and God was helping him! 
It remained only for him to do his part. Holding the 
letter tightly and looking up he prayed '' Lord God ! . . . 
Give me but the opportunity to prove that I am a 
man ! ” 

It was in this mood and with this prayer on his lips 
that McLain went into the house. As he crossed the 
threshold his tense look of exaltation softened altnost 


266 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


to a smile. After all, public life was only a part of it! 

The hall was dimly lighted from the opening into the 
library beyond, where on the high, old-fashioned mantel 
a wax candle burned. The Oaks was ready for the 
coming of the mistress, and as he looked around McLain 
saw everywhere evidences of her touch. He stood a 
moment in the doorway of the room and gazed at it, 
wondering — in his man’s helplessness at fashioning a 
house into a home — how she had done it. 

The room was the same — the great, square, twenty- 
foot room of ante-bellum days in old Missouri; and yet 
as different as was his life to-day with its new buoyancy 
from the dead hopelessness of one year ago. And it 
was her hand that had transformed them both ! 

He recalled with a smile the hideous aspect of this 
room the day she looked upon it first and said it had 
possibilities ; — the dark, monstrous wall paper, the smoke- 
grimed ceiling, and the tawdry graining of the wood- 
work. All was gloom — nothing but gloom and warring 
colours. But now 

Those sombre, discordant tints had given place to soft, 
shaded tones of grey and white, as she had said they 
should. At the windows hung the graceful folds of 
madras and white Holland shades that tempered the 
light without excluding it, and on the waxed floor lay 
luxurious rugs — not of Mrs. Debo’s fashioning. It all 
formed a harmonious background for the pieces of old 
mahogany which had but that day been put in place and 
were still unfamiliar to him. He looked at them curi- 
ously. They were her mother’s, brought from her grand- 
father Charlton’s as her portion of the family heirlooms 
and now coming to Jean by natural descent. 

Among them was a massive writing desk that had 
been her grandfather’s. It was a handsome thing, and 
she had assigned it to McLain for his own — a wedding 
gift from his new-found ancestors, she gaily told him. 
He had been arranging his papers in it to-day, for every- 


THE LETTER 


S67 

thing was to be in readiness for the home-coming after 
the marriage ceremony. 

As he stood looking at the Charlton mahogany and 
smiling to think of Jean’s enjoyment of her heirlooms, 
he glanced instinctively at the low bookshelves around 
one side of the room. They were filled with the books 
that had been coming to him through the last few weeks. 
On the fly leaf of most of them was written in a 
scholarly hand: 


''John Archer McLain” 

and a date of a generation ago, while in the upper right 
hand corner of each book was a printed label bearing 
the same name, a number filled out in ink, and beneath 
this two mottoes, one supplementing the other: 

“ Buy the truth and sell it not.” 

“And the truth shall make you free.” 

They were his father’s books, and as he looked at them 
in this new setting he felt a not unnatural satisfaction 
that he could match the Charlton pride of family with a 
more noble pride of intellect and inherited scholarship. 

“ It will be a mingling of two strains of good blood,” 
he thought, whatever may be said it will be that, and 
please God, we’ll keep it so ! ” 

On the bookcases were the bowls of June roses that 
they had this day gathered. They filled the night a’‘r 
with their fragrance. 

“ It’s all simple and sweet and pure ! ” he thought, 
summing it up. “ It’s like herself — ^God bless her ! ” 

The old grandfather’s clock in the hall, which was 
Jean’s choicest possession, chimed out the hour of mid- 
night. McLain counted the strokes mechanically, smil- 
ing to himself again at thought of the long time he had 
spent here day-dreaming. As he started to take up the 


268 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


candlestick, the letter which he had all this time held 
slipped from his grasp. He picked it up and looked 
idly at the postmark; but it was blurred and illegible. 
Then setting the candle down on the mantel he tore 
oi¥ the end of the envelope and took out the letter, 
glancing at the heading, — St. George, Utah. . . . Well, 
that told nothing. He had heard of St. George, prin- 
cipally as a stronghold of Mormonism, but he knew no- 
body there. Still, it was Utah, and a vague uneasiness 
stirred within him. 

“ My dear McLain ” [the letter began], you doubt- 
less will be surprised to hear from me after all this time, 
and perhaps not much pleased. But I have just heard 
a piece of news so astounding, and affecting you so 
vitally that 

McLain turned the page sharply. Who was this from 
anyway? The name at the bottom end of the letter did 
not reassure him. It was Calvin Judd. A thrill of 
apprehension shot through him. What could Calvin 
Judd be writing to him about? . . . What was his 
news? A pregnant foreboding of evil was settling down 
upon him. He stood staring at the name as if it had 
some evil fascination for him. . . . What — could 
Judd — be writing to him about? Then with an impa- 
tient gesture as if throwing off any unformulated fear 
he turned the page and read again from the beginning 
of the sentence: 

But I have just heard a piece of news so astounding, ‘ 
and affecting you so vitally that I write to apprise you 
of it without delay. 

You remember my telling you about Mulnix, — ^how 
he was captured in the canyon, and taken back to the 
pen. A few weeks ago he finished serving his sentence 
and the time added for that fool escapade. Well ! Just 


THE LETTER 


269 


before he was to be released, some boys out on a tramp 
in Parley’s Canyon came upon the skeleton of a man 
half hidden under a mass of dirt and stones that had 
fallen upon him from the dugway. That man was 
clothed in rotting prison garments; he was just about 
your size; and on his blouse was your number. Gan 
you take that in and realize what it may mean to you ? ” 

The white-faced man clutching the letter and staring 
at it with eyes which saw not the words written there 
but only the possibilities wrapped up in them, did take 
it in in all its entirety, — took it in with a rush of emotion 
that threatened to shut off his breath. ... It would 
mean freedom to him! Freedom and deliverance from 
the body of this death to which he had been so long 
chained I 

He turned to the letter again. 

“ This fellow Mulnix was questioned closely about 
you without letting him know anything about this find, 
but he denied that he had seen you in the canyon at 
all, or that he knew anything about you. Of course it 
was the fact that you both escaped at the same time that 
threw suspicion on him. Questioned further, he told 
conflicting stories from time to time, and finally that he 
did see you in the canyon, that you quarrelled, and that 
you struck him down and left him for dead. This story 
he sticks to. But there were your skeleton, your clothes, 
and your number to give the lie to it. Oh, circumstantial 
evidence is a fine thing! Well, the upshot of it all is 
that when Mulnix walked out of the prison gates a free 
man it was only to be met with a warrant for his arrest 
on a charge of murder. Before the poor devil had time 
to see that the sky was blue and the trees still green he 
had been tried, convicted, and sentenced to life imprison- 
ment — for your murder! You see, circumstantial evi- 
dence was strong against him; his own contradictory 


270 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS 


testimony was damning; and the fellow’s record did the 
rest. 

I suppose I may as well tell you, McLain, that if I 
had been in Salt Lake at the time of the trial, or had 
known anything about it, I should have been forced by 
my sense of justice to tell that you were alive. I really 
think I should, though it would have been a mighty 
unsavoury mess for an ex-sherit¥ who had winked at 
your escape to be mixed up in. But as luck would have 
it I was down in southern Utah prospecting at the time 
and saw no papers. I never heard one word about it 
till yesterday; but I have it from a source that is un- 
questionable. The man is in the penitentiary now serv- 
ing a life sentence for your murder, while you are en- 
tering upon the role of a reputable citizen. Isn’t it a 
travesty on justice? 

“ I tell you when I heard this thing it shook me up 
considerably. I took one night to sleep over it and make 
up my mind what my responsibility in the matter was.” 

Archer McLain reached for a chair to steady himself. 

“ If I hadn’t been fool enough to be wheedled into 
holding my tongue when I ought to have spoken out I 
would never have found myself involved in this wretched 
complication. It was a mistake ever to have let this 
thing between you and Jean Dabney go on. But now 
that it is done, and irrevocable, for I suppose by this time 
she is your wife, I don’t know that I feel called upon to 
put the knife to my old friend’s heart (and his child’s) by 
speaking up now. Mulnix has no family and is a hard- 
ened criminal. The world will be better off to have him 
behind prison bars. That relieves me of some responsi- 
bility. And I honestly believe that you have the making 
of a man in you if you have a chance. I’ve promised to 
give you that chance. I’ve given you my word that I 
would keep my hands off, and by the Eternal ! I am going 


THE LETTER 


271 


to stand by it, right or wrong ! This thing has got beyond 
me. It’s up to you and the Almighty now. I wash my 
hands of all responsibility about it. Let me hear from 
you. “Yours truly, 

“ Calvin Judd.” 

After the first mention of Mulnix’s name McLain had 
read rapidly, urged on by a maddening anxiety to know 
what Judd was going to do. Upon this man again rested 
his fate. He was nerved to the worst — the worst being 
that Judd might already have given him up and be writ- 
ing this to tell him so and put him on his guard. When 
he reached the final word and realized that the ex-sheriff 
had simply thrust the responsibility into his (McLain’s) 
hands and stood from under, he could hardly trust the 
evidence of his eyes. He had lived long while reading 
this letter. He dropped into the nearest chair now, 
feeling suddenly spent and strengthless. . . . Judd 
would stand by him! . . . For some moments he sat 
there feeling nothing, realizing nothing but an overpower- 
ing relief. . . . Judd — would — stand by him! 

Then as his faculties began to assert their independ- 
ence of this paralyzing fear that had fallen upon them 
and to work more normally he perceived with access of 
confidence which was positive joy that Judd’s attitude 
in the matter was not entirely on account of love for 
his old friend and his old friend’s child, nor even be- 
cause he had given his word that he (McLain) should 
have a chance. In a way, Judd had involved himself 
by his connivance at the escape of a criminal. True, he 
was not now an officer of the law, but he had been at 
the time of the escape, and his commission had expired 
so short a time before that accidental meeting at Dr. 
Dabney’s and all its chain of results that as he himself 
had said, it would be an “ unsavoury mess ” for him to be 
mixed up in. People would be quick to think, in the 
absence of proof to the contrary (and proof could never 


m THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


be given in a case like^hat), that the usual motive had 
influenced him. Money is more potent in such cases 
usually than disinterested love of friends. . . . No, 
there was no doubt that Judd had compromised himself 
somewhat — well, perhaps not that exactly — but at least 
had placed himself by his silence where it would be 
awkward now for him to speak out. There is nothing 
like self-interest to seal a man’s lips. 

All this McLain saw more and more clearly the longer 
he pondered the matter, and his spirits lightened pro- 
portionately. With Judd’s lips sealed — no matter what 
the compelling power — generosity or self-interest, and 
with all quest for himself ended by the finding of what 
was supposed to be his body, the danger of discovery 
was immeasurably decreased. Why, in the eyes of the 
law and of the officers of the law who had been on the 
hunt for him he was dead ! Dead ! There was no 
danger now of anybody’s being on the track. He was 
dead and buried, and the great grist of crime would 
soon crowd from the public mind all remembrance of 
him. He was virtually safe. 

He could have wept for joy as this conviction came 
gradually upon him. He felt an impulse to fall on 
his knees. All the way he had been helped to escape. 
There seemed an element of fate in the passages opened 
to him, and the ease with which he had slipped into them. 
His mind sped back to the moment when in that mad 
dash for liberty he had taken to the nearest canyon 
and fled on and on, expecting every moment to hear the 
rifle’s crack and see his pursuers behind him. But they 
had not come. . . . Why? 

And then to come upon this man — of all improbable 
things, a dead man there in the canyon! To be sure, 
it was no such unusual thing for a dead man to be found 
in a canyon — they were found there oftener than any- 
where else in that country, and it was easy to see, from 
the broken bottle in his pocket and the crumbled dugway 


THE LETTER 


^73 


above, how and why this one had come here. . . . 
But why was it he instead of Mulnix that was destined 
to find him? 

And at the last when Mulnix did come and they fought 
for the chance, why was it his arm that prevailed? 
Mulnix was stronger than he. . . . Why ? . . . Be- 
cause it was fate — the whole thing was fate — even to 
his being thrown here into this community, — flung head- 
long, so that he had no choice but to stay, until — well, 
until he no longer wished to go. Somebody’s hand was 
in it — God’s, Dr. Dabney would probably say . . . yes, 
it certainly did seem as if God had been on his side! 
And again he had that strange impulse to throw himself 
on his knees. 

A deep and reverent feeling stole over him which was 
as near akin to religious exaltation as anything he had 
ever experienced. He had asked God for the oppor- 
tunity to prove his manhood, and He had given it to 
him. His feet had slipped, but they were set now upon 
a rock, and beyond was the pathway that led to peace. 
He closed his eyes with a feeling of ineifable relief. 

Then, without warning, the serpent glided across this 
path and transfixed him with a single word. 

But — Mulnix! 


XXIII 


THE FIGHT 



HE colour dropped from the man’s face as mer- 


cury drops from a broken bulb. His jaw fell 


with that nervelessness which betokens vacuity 
of mind; and without moving his body he turned his 
head with a slow and stealthy motion, looking behind 
him furtively as if he feared that in some dim corner 
the man with the club was lurking, ready to fall upon 


him. 


Then, with a sigh of relief and a half-foolish look on 
his face as if he were ashamed of this involuntary weak- 
ness, he sank back in his chair and brought his mind 
forcibly to bear on the subject before him. And as he 
went deeper and deeper into it his countenance changed, 
an evil light began to creep into his eyes, and the lines 
of his mouth hardened. 

‘‘Well, what of Mulnix?” he demanded at length, 
throwing up his head and looking straight ahead of him 
with narrowing eyes and lips that tightened as if he 
were defying some invisible questioner. “ He is nothing 
to me ! I didn’t put him there ! ” 

He reiterated this insistently, in varying forms. “ I 
have no responsibility in the matter! I will not take 
any. And, by Heaven! no man shall thrust it upon 
me ! ” He was breathing hard. “ I didn’t put him 
there ! ” 

Then to the question inevitably following he answered 
himself doggedly, “ Who did ? Why, a chain of evil 
chances, I suppose, for which nobody is to blame — 
forged by the Evil One, for aught I know ” — forgetting 


274 


THE FIGHT 275 

that but a moment ago he had called his chain of for- 
tuitous circumstances Providence. 

No ! I had nothing to do with it — and Pm not going 
to suffer for it, either ! I didn’t put Mulnix there— and 
I’m not keeping him there! . . . I’m— not— keep- 
ing ” 

The word died in his throat and he clutched at it 
from the outside, a swift look of terror coming into his 
face, over which the greyness that is worse than pallor 
was stealing. A terrified look came into his eyes, and 
again in the dim room there was that furtive turning 
of the head, that fearful looking behind him for a shape. 

And this time, be it recorded in all solemnity and all 
truth, the man was there, armed not with a club but 
with the three smooth stones that McLain’s own words 
had placed in his sling — “ keeping — him — there.” And 
they grappled and fought with a ferocity and stubborn- 
ness that made that conflict in the canyon, which was 
but a material one, seem child’s play. And the thing 
they fought for now — as then — was the chance! 

“ Whe-w-w ! ” 

The ejaculation was born of that struggle. McLain 
wiped the sweat from his face, shaking his head and say- 
ing aloud: 

“ I’ve got to think this thing out ! I am losing my 
nerve — and my senses, with it, I think. I — I can’t seem 
to get the right focus on things.” 

He got up and strode across the room, back and forth, 
back and forth — past the stored up wisdom of his father’s 
books, — wisdom that was for other crises than this, 
surely — past the heirlooms that stood as so many monu- 
ments of the Charlton pride — past the roses that Jean’s 
hand had placed here — back and forth, back and forth, 
seeing nothing, heeding nothing but the problem before 
him; and at last sitting down at his desk determined 
that he would compel himself to think clearly and con- 
secutively. 


276 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


The man is a hardened criminal,” he said to himself, 
outlining the case, '' a foredoomed criminal. His record 
shows that. Three terms, Judd said, and he told me 
himself that he had been in since he was nineteen, with 
only two breathing spells between commitments. How 
could one expect a man like that to keep out if by any 
chance, or any sacrifice, he should get out? . . . Oh, 
no ! It wouldn’t be worth it ! . . . It would be utterly 
useless — an insane self-immolation that would bring no 
adequate results.” Indeed, he assured himself, it was 
not improbable that this sentence, severe as it was, might 
even save the man from a worse fate, — the gallows. . . . 
There was a grain of consolation in that thought. 

Yes, Mulnix was a bad man. Judd had said that the 
world would be better ot¥ with him behind prison bars. 
Society needed protection from such men. But 

For life! 

Ah-h! . . . that was a hard sentence! 

The prison rose before him in mute protest at its 
severity. Not that it was a bad place, as prisons went — 
Utah was more merciful to her outcasts, he found, than 
many an older commonwealth — ^but, after all, a prison. 
Noisome odours assailed his nostrils; prison silences 
again overwhelmed him; he shut his eyes and saw the 
sullen faces of men clothed in the garb of shame — Mul- 
nix had never once been promoted to plain clothes, which 
of itself showed that he was lost to shame and am- 
bition, for in the Utah prison any man might hope to 
attain to plain clothes by good conduct. 

Why, Mulnix was even put periodically into the dark 
cell — that grim substitute for a dungeon where the pris- 
oners were confined for insubordination. That brings 
’em to ! ” he once heard a guard say, significantly. And 
small wonder — shut up as a man was there in outer 
darkness, inside a sweat box, food thrust in as to some 
wild beast through a grating that closed again to exclude 
even a friendly ray of light. Necessary? Perhaps so. 


THE FIGHT 


m 

It is not for the irresponsible laity to question, but 
McLain shivered at the thought of even Mulnix in it — 
and he would be in it many times in the course of such 
a sentence as 

God! what a sentence that was! 

He staggered to the open window, threw up the screen 
— impatient of the slightest restraint — and thrust his 
body halfway out, drinking in great draughts of air. 
It was filled with the perfume of the Baltimore Belle 
— the old bush that he and Jean had stood under only 
yesterday picking its clusters for the rose bowls. . . . 
Was that only yesterday? . . . From the flower gar- 
den where they had walked yesterday — if it was yester- 
day — was borne to him on the night wind the spicy scent 
of the clove pinks that bordered the flower beds. It was 
all just as she had wanted it. Now, the clove pink is 
the sweetest old flower in all the world, and its pungent 
fragrance nobody ever forgets ; — but to the man drawing 
in great breaths of it with senses preternaturally acute, 
it suddenly became intolerable. 

He drew inside and sat down heavily, his gaze wan- 
dering aimlessly around the room. It lighted upon Jean’s 
sewing table that had been her mother’s, and her grand- 
mother’s before that, over in the corner of the great 
fireplace — the kind women rave over nowadays — a stand 
with a leaf on either side that lifts, and two drawers 
with glass knobs. On it was a little sewing basket that 
she had brought over the day before — just to see how 
it would look,” she had said, blushing and half laugh- 
ing at her own impatience to try the effect of every old 
familiar thing in this new and wonderful setting of joint 
ownership. 

He looked at it dully at first; then crossing the room 
stood beside it, opening and shutting the drawers and 
fingering the contents of the basket — the spools, the 
dainty needle-book, the bits of lace and embroidery, — 
feeling as he did so a dull aching of the throat such as 


278 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


he had not experienced since he was a child and struggled 
to keep back unmanly emotion. 

Here, near the table was her little rocker; the big one 
beyond it was his own. She had placed them here to- 
gether in front of the fireplace only yesterday, explaining 
to him as he listened with mock deference that this 
should be her side and that his, and that in the winter 
evenings he should read aloud to her from all these books 
while she sewed, — no, not the theological ones, of course, 
but the juicy ones. And he had agreed, only insisting 
that there must not be so much as a table between them. 
He shut his teeth hard, but it could not keep back the 
groan forced through them at the thought of those idle 
words; for he knew that however this thing terminated 
it would leave between them forever, not a table, not an 
insensate piece of wood — oh, no! but a hideous spectre 
clothed in stripes. 

After all, the human heart, with its hopes and its 
despairs, changes little from age to age. At that sweet 
innocent picture of home life which but yesterday was 
within his grasp and to-day was slipping from it like 
the baseless fabric of a dream, the cry wrung from him 
was a repetition of the one wailed forth on old Judea’s 
plains : 

'' Our holy . . . and our beautiful house is burned 
up with fire and all our pleasant places are laid 
waste.” 

But as he stood looking at these things a distinct re- 
vulsion of feeling came over him. He perceived with 
relief that he had not even yet got things in focus. They 
were still distorted, and he went back to his desk and 
sat down determined to try once more to look at this 
thing dispassionately and sanely. 

He had been thinking of himself and Mulnix as the 
chief actors in this tragedy and as such the ones to be 
thought of now. But it was not true that they were 
the first to be considered. There was Jean! . . . He 


THE FIGHT 


^79 

and Mulnix were men, and must be expected to bear 
any fate that their own misdeeds had brought upon them, 
but when it came to bringing disgrace and ruin on a 
woman — a defenceless woman whose honour, whose hap- 
piness, whose very life lay in this decision — that was 
different. What compulsion was on him to drag her 
down with him? as he must if this were known. . . . 
It would kill her! He might better himself put a knife 
to her heart — it would be more merciful. . . . Jean, 
his little Jean! 

And that old man, her father, who had so freely 
opened his home to him and permitted him to enter 
its inner circle; who had given to him the one priceless 
treasure of his heart; who he knew loved and leaned 
upon him as a son. He had been so glad and proud to 
yield his strength for this, for he had a curious feeling 
that in giving Jean’s father a son’s filial care he was mak- 
ing restitution to his own mother. . . . Could he ruth- 
lessly and at one blow strike from this old man’s hand 
that prop, and bring down his grey hairs with sorrow 
to the grave? Surely, surely it was not required of any 
man that he bring ruin on his own household! . . . 
Yes, ... of course . . . but Mulnix had no family! 
That made a difference — and ought to make a difference. 
If men involved only themselves 

He broke off this train abruptly, realizing that the 
hour was late for that argument. ... No, he had 
no family either, in the eyes of the law, but so far as 
the disgrace was concerned it was the same as if she 
were his wife. ... If it had only come earlier — if 
it had come last winter when Judd came — but now. . . . 
Just one week before! . . . He could not do it! It 
was monstrous to expect it — and for a beast like Mulnix 
! — no human ties — no character — no future ! 

And then strangely enough there shot through him a 
pang of pity for a man cut off from human ties and 
foredoomed to a life of crime. He had had his day of 


280 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


grace and sinned it away, but to Mulnix it had never 
come. 

He fell back then upon Judd’s letter and the implica- 
tion that society should be protected from such a man — 
a criminal serving a third term. It was true. Such a 
man was a distinct menace to the State. And Judd had 
acknowledged that he saw in him (McLain) the making 
of a useful citizen if he but had the chance. . . . Oh, 
God! for the chance! — the chance that he had once 
thrown so wilfully away! Was it demanded of him 
that he throw it away again ? Surely, surely not ! 

But — for life! 

The old clock on the stairs ticked the minutes and 
tolled the hours unheeded, and still the battle raged. 

But it was going against him — that was plain to be 
seen. The invisible forces were closing in on him. When 
the night had worn away to that hour just before dawn 
when, physicians tell us, more souls slip their mortal 
moorings and drift out than at any other in the twenty- 
four, because then vitality is weakest and our powers of 
resistance are at their lowest ebb, he opened a drawer 
and took out a revolver. It was one he had bought with 
the first money earned after his escape — bought with 
the deliberate, settled purpose — which he had never seen 
fit to renounce — of using it if ever need came. As he 
held it in his hand now, and examined it carefully to 
make sure there would be no bungling, reflecting that 
with one little click all would be over, it seemed a swift 
and easy way out. And as apathetically as he looked 
at the instrument did he survey the unfathomable abyss 
on whose brink he stood. On this side — and imminent 
— were disgrace, unending obloquy, and the certain loss 
of all that made life worth living. On that — rest from 
this conflict at least — and sleep. To his tortured nerves 
these two things seemed just then the great desideratum. 
He raised the glittering, deadly thing with a steady hand, 
closed his eyes, and 


THE FIGHT 


281 


'' My son ! . . . My son ! ’’ 

The voice fell on his ear — so low, so thrillingly sweet, 
so familiar in its remembered cadences of tender plead- 
ing that involuntarily he looked around him expecting 
to see her bodily presence. In the excited state of his 
overwrought fancy it would have been no more miracu- 
lous than to hear her voice — and it was her voice! To 
his dying day he believed it. 

But in the darkness, though he felt for her as a child 
feels for its mother’s hand, he could not discern her. 
Nothing was there but the dim outlines of the furniture 
seen through the struggling dawn. The candle had flick- 
ered out. 

He put the revolver back in the drawer. 

It was the coward’s way,” he told himself with 
bitter contempt. ‘‘ I will not leave her that to bear, 
at least. . . . Besides, what good would that do 
Mulnix?” 

He got up then and went again to the open window, 
drawing a chair close to it and dropping into it, for he 
felt physically spent from his long vigil. In the east 
were the first faint rosy streaks that foretold the coming 
of another day. He looked at them dully as they deep- 
ened and broadened and mounted higher. If there is 
anything in nature that bears Hope in its very arms it 
is the coming of the dawn. But it was not beautiful 
to him; it brought no promise of joy — no prophecy of 
peace; it was but the harbinger of the onrush of doom. 
How could he get through this day — and the rest of the 
days ? They would come as irresistibly as this was com- 
ing — only he would not be here to see them. And the 
days there 

The morning air rustled the fresh June foliage and 
fanned his hot forehead. It was very grateful to him. 
He closed his eyes with a dim hope that Nature’s sooth- 
ing touch would be laid on his burning heart as 
well. 


282 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


To have to give it all up! To face defeat at last! 
To be shut out from all this by prison bars! A marvel- 
lous thing is a man’s memory — that impalpable, intangi- 
ble essence which by any chance wind of circumstance — 
a sound, an odour, a word, it may be — can catch us up 
and with the speed of lightning transport us across time 
and space and set us down bodily in the midst of old-time 
pleasure or pain. Ah, Memory is a divine gift, but it 
has its stings. McLain could hear at that moment the 
clang of a hundred iron doors as in obedience to the 
will of one ponderous arm they shot into place — and 
upon his tense ear fell again the grating of the monster 
key that with one turn held all those poor wretches there 
like so many rats in a trap. . . . And “ at the prison 
gates ” Judd had said ! 

The trees stirred joyously to meet the coming day; 
sweet odours from the honeysuckle and the new-mown 
grass were wafted to him; the squirrels were chasing 
each other and chattering in the dim old oaks; the birds 
were beginning their matin hymns. ... “ Before he 

had time to see that the sky was blue ” — oh, why must 
Judd have put it in that senseless way ? . . . “ or the 
leaves still green ! ” 

He closed his eyes and drew in a great draught of air 
at the thought of receding sunlight, moonlight, starlight. 
How large commonplace things loomed on his horizon 
now that they were disappearing! How much greater 
are the simple joys of life than any other if we only 
knew it! Breath in our nostrils, God’s sunlight, food 
and raiment, June days, love, and the humblest home 
of our own fashioning ! . . . Ah ! 

Somehow the moonlight and Dr. Dabney’s steps were 
beating themselves into his brain with insistent force, 
and one particular May night stood out from the rest. 
They had been sitting on the steps, he and Jean, talking 
of the future opening up before them, when the call 
came for prayers. He had not listened very closely to 


THE FIGHT 


283 


the reading, his mind being full of weightier matters 
until his attention was aroused and held by something 
that seemed a message to himself, so sharply did the 
words stand out from everything else. It was almost as if 
they had been etched upon his consciousness by the 
powerful acid of conscience. 

“ God is not mocked,” the benign old man was read- 
ing, “ whatsoever a man sows that shall he also 
reap.” 

He had listened to it with startled apprehension — fol- 
lowed by amusement at his own credulity. This was the 
statement of a natural law — the law upon which his 
success as a tiller of the soil would depend. As to its 
spiritual meaning — he shrugged his shoulders. It was 
hard to get away from those old outgrown superstitions. 
Then he had cast it from him and gone back to the steps 
and the moonlight and the planning, and had forgotten 
all about it. . . . But it was true! Sitting here with 
the ruins of his house about him, precipitated by one 
weak moment, he knew that it was true ! He had sowed 
the wind that day years ago — not viciously, but with 
reckless disregard of right — and this that he was reaping 
to-night was the whirlwind ! 

McLain became conscious after a while that he was 
cold. The wind had changed, and lying as he was with 
his shoulders on the window sill the chill of the early 
morning had got into his very marrow and made him 
numb. He stood up and looked around him vacantly 
as if for a moment he had lost himself. Then he went 
into the next room, opened a cupboard, and took down 
a flask of whiskey, pouring some into a glass and drink- 
ing it down at one draught, as a man in great need; 
after which, looking neither to right nor left, he went 
heavily back into the room he had left — out into the 
hall — up the stairs where the old clock ticked as he had 
never heard it before : 


284 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 

“ Never — forever! 

Forever — never! ” 

past the open doorway of the chamber in blue and gold 
that was to have been hers — and on to his own room. 
Here, throwing himself on the bed, he fell almost imme- 
diately into the deep sleep of physical exhaustion. 


XXIV 


CONFESSION 

yr McLAIN! . . . Mr. McLain!^* 

\/| He woke from this blessed oblivion to find 
^ the day well advanced and Mrs. Debo stand- 
ing over him, shaking him vigorously by the shoulder. 
He sat up and stared at her, still half-dazed. 

“Well?’' he said. “What is it? Is anything the 
matter ? ” 

“ That’s what I’d like to know, and if you can’t tell 
I don’t know who can. Are you sick ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Well, breakfast has been waiting for three hours. 
I’ve knocked at this door and peeped in a good half- 
dozen times, and finally I got scared about you. I 
thought maybe you had had a stroke, or passed away 
in sleep.” 

He looked at her dumbly. That were a consumma- 
tion devoutly to be wished. “ Send me a cup of strong 
coffee. That is all I want.” 

She was giving his haggard face a critical look. 

“ I reckon you better come down to the dining-room 
ef you ain’t sick. Sandy’s gone to work and my rheu- 
matism is pretty bad this morning.” She was thinking, 
“ I don’t know what has come to him, but a good meal 
o’ victuals gen’ally helps — whatever it is. I’ll stir up 
some waffles for him instead of them half-cold biscuits.” 

He half smiled at the thought of one’s housekeeper 
taking him in hand in this way, but seeing through her 
subterfuge, made no further resistance. 

“ Very well, I’ll be down.” 

285 


286 THE MASTER OF ‘‘THE OAKS” 


He made his toilet with deliberation, half wondering 
as he looked at his own reflection in the mirror before 
which he was shaving if this were really he, and if the 
events of last night were but the phantasm of a dream. 
He seemed to have exhausted all power to feel, and 
found himself thinking of the man downstairs last night 
as one thinks of another — impersonally. He could not 
understand the apathy that had fallen upon him, but 
certainly it was a great relief. It seemed as if nothing 
mattered any more, or ever would. Even the inevitable 
interview with Dr. Dabney which he had shrunk from 
last night so unspeakably was contemplated now with 
perfect calm. And when in going downstairs he passed 
the open door of the blue and gold room and stepped in 
looking stolidly around, he thought almost in awe, 

Something in me must have died last night. I can’t 
account for it any other way. . . . Well, may it never 
come to life! ” 

At the breakfast table, set down to broiled chicken and 
the hot waffles that Mrs. Debo, thinking of his face, 
brought in crisp and smoking with reckless disregard of 
her rheumatism, he ate with his usual relish, thinking 
contemptuously that the physical man was left, at any 
rate. Perhaps it was the spiritual that had passed 
away. 

At the door of the dining-room he turned as if in- 
tending to speak, and the housekeeper stood waiting with 
quickened pulse under her stolid exterior. She knew 
there was something to tell. But he apparently thought 
better of it if he had such a thought, for he went out 
of the room without a word. 

“ He’s down, sure,” thought Mrs. Debo, looking after 
him, “ and when a person is, it ain’t no time then to 
pound him with questions.” 

From the dining-room McLain went straight to the 
telephone and called up Dr. Dabney’s residence. The 
doctor himself answered it, leaving his study and the 


CONFESSION 


m 

final looking over of to-morrow’s sermon to do so. It 
was an infinite relief to McLain to hear his voice in- 
stead of Jean’s. It would have complicated things if 
she had come. 

Was Jean at home? he enquired, with the thought in 
his mind that if she were he would ask the doctor to 
come over to The Oaks. 

No, the doctor explained, regretfully, Jean had gone 
to town to get a few last things, he believed. Was 
there any message? 

No. No message. Was Miss Lavinia there? 

The minister was sorry that Miss Lavinia too was 
away — he was alone. Was anything wanted? 

Yes, doctor,” said McLain then, speaking with 
greater freedom, there is a matter that I want to talk 
over with you this afternoon if I may.” 

‘'Yes, yes.” Dr. Dabney was not without a vein of 
humour. McLain could distinctly hear his laugh over 
the telephone, which struck him as a ghastly thing. It 
was that little matter of the ceremony, he supposed. 
Jean had been worrying over that too, but he thought 
that after forty years or so of marriage ceremonies he 
would be able to get through one more — even if it did 
come a little close home. Couldn’t he come over and take 
dinner with him? Then they could talk it over at their 
leisure. 

No. He would be over about two o’clock if that time 
would suit him, McLain said, and hung the receiver 
up abruptly, feeling the impossibility of continuing this 
conversation. 

From the telephone he went to his desk, writing letters 
and assorting papers, some of which he took to his room 
and locked in a trunk with a pile of old letters addressed 
all in the same cramped, feminine hand. When he got 
through Grandfather Charlton’s desk was as bare as it 
was yesterday before he had put his belongings into it. 
Only pen, ink, and paper were left, and with these he 


288 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


sat down to write. He had already written two letters. 
The first — a short one — had been penned without a 
tremor, though it was the crucial one, for had it not 
been sent the others would have been unnecessary. The 
second, addressed to Judge Haliday, was longer and 
had been given more thought, but that too had been 
written with no faltering hand. It was only when this 
last letter was essayed that his vocabulary failed. 

Time after time he began only to cast the sheet aside 
and take another. How could he begin? What words 
could he use that would make her understand ? At last, 
drawing a sheet toward him with a kind of desperate 
determination, he wrote rapidly page after page, not 
stopping to change a word or to recast a sentence. 
And then when the last syllable was penned and he had 
read it carefully over, weighing what he had said over 
against what he had wanted to say, the futility of it all 
came over him, and gathering up the crumpled, muti- 
lated attempts at a beginning he placed them on the 
hearthstone between the brass andirons that had come 
down from the Charltons, laid the written sheets one by 
one upon the pile, and put a match to the whole, saying 
to himself as he watched them go up in smoke: 

“ Thus is our hearth fire kindled . . . and thus it 
goes out! . . . Futile, like the rest! 

When he heard Mrs. Debo in the dining-room a mo- 
ment later he called her in, telling her without looking 
up that he had been suddenly called away and should 
start that night. Would she pack his portmanteau with 
a few changes of underclothes and so forth ? 

Must she pack his new suit? she asked, stolidly. 

No. 

His grey one? 

No. 

She asked no further questions, remembering his face 
that morning and noticing that it was beginning to have 
that same strained look. He felt an almost absurd grati- 


CONFESSION 289 

tude for her silence. It seemed an earnest of what he 
might depend upon. 

When Sandy brought his horse to the door he mounted 
and rode away, and the hard-featured woman’s face 
worked as she looked after him. 

“ It’s hit him hard ! ” she said. “ Whatever it is, it’s 
hit him hard! Well, there’s nothin’ for Drusilla to do 
but to hold her tongue. Maybe that’ll help some.” 

On the road, with every hoofbeat bringing him nearer 
to this fateful interview, Milo was soon slowed down 
to a walk. The thought of it grew momentarily more 
intolerable. How was he to begin ? What could he say 
that would render it less abrupt? It seemed brutal to 
go to this unsuspecting old man with a tale like this! 
When he had talked with him over the telephone he had 
intended to prepare Dr. Dabney, in a way, by speaking 
of some great trouble that had come to him. That 
would have thrown the burden of enquiry upon the 
doctor and the subject would have been introduced 
naturally. But the minister’s tacit assumption that it 
was the trivial subject of a ring ceremony he wished to 
talk about had broken him up at the telephone, and he 
had said none of the things that might have helped. 

Nor did Dr. Dabney’s cheerful, friendly greeting make 
the telling of such a tale as his easier. 

“ How are you, Archer, my boy ? Glad to see you 
when I can have you to myself. Will you come in or 
sit out here ? ” 

Here, if you please.” It seemed to him at that mo- 
ment that he could not cross this old man’s threshold. 

So they sat down together on the vine-covered porch 
where he had sat so many times with Jean — the young 
man with dry lips, the older one gently garrulous. If 
Dr. Dabney noticed his visitor’s unusual reticence he 
made no sign. Perhaps, remembering Grandfather 
Charlton and his own youth, he attributed it to a con- 
straint not unnatural under the circumstances. At all 


290 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


events, he rambled on upon indifferent subjects, giving 
McLain time to recover himself, — an opportunity which 
to the doctor’s surprise he did not seem very prompt 
to avail himself of, for his embarrassment increased with 
every moment. 

“ I suppose I was right in surmising that you wanted 
to consult me about the ceremony. Archer,” the minister 
said, after considerable talk that seemed to lead nowhere. 
“ Genevieve had told me you would be over to ask me 
some questions in regard to it. She is quite firm for 
the Episcopal ceremony, as you know (that was her 
mother’s church before she married me) ; and I think 
she is a little fearful that a plain Presbyterian minister 
may not be quite equal to it. But I think there will be 
no trouble, though I confess to a little more trepidation 
at the thought of this particular marriage ceremony than 
of any I have taken part in since the one in which I 
was an active participant. But not for fear of stumbling 
over the words — no, no — a misstep like that is easily 
remedied. . . . Well, I will get the Prayer Book and 
we will look it over together.” 

He was gone before McLain could utter a word of 
protest, and was back in a moment with a little book 
in which was the name of Mary Charlton. A book- 
mark was in it at the marriage ceremony. 

“ It was her mother’s,” said Dr. Dabney, gently, look- 
ing at the girlish handwriting with eyes that were tem- 
porarily obscured. “ I am very glad to use this ceremony 
and the little book as well,” he continued, taking his 
glasses off and rubbing them with his handkerchief. 
“ It seems to bring her mother a little nearer to Gene- 
vieve at a time when — well, a time when a young girl 
needs her mother’s presence and counsels more than at 
any other period of her life, perhaps. It is this feeling, 
doubtless, that makes me unusually tender of my little 
girl just now — a realization, we might say, that a father 
cannot be to her what a mother would be in this time 


CONFESSION 291 

of momentous issues — for that is what marriage is to a 
woman, my boy ’’ 

He looked up almost appealingly at the young man, 
and then seeing the look on McLain’s face added hastily, 
fearing he had wounded him by an implied doubt, “ Not 
that I have any misgivings about her choice, Archer — 
not at all! Not at all! I may not have a better oppor- 
tunity than this to say to you that when I commit into 
your hands this sacred trust left to me by her sainted 
mother I shall have the inestimable assurance that I am 
giving her into the keeping of a good man and true — 
one who will make her happiness and her welfare his 
first concern.” 

It seemed to the man listening to this that he had had 
a nerve tapped. If it went on his resolution would be 
gone. 

“ Dr. Dabney,” he said in a stifled voice, ‘‘ I am not 
worthy of this confidence.” He could not bring his eyes 
to meet the benign face opposite him and there was a life- 
lessness and want of spontaneity in his tone that checked 
the good doctor’s reply. He felt somehow convicted 
of effusiveness, a thing he disliked and of which he was 
never guilty. 

“ We will look the service over later,” he said, quietly, 
closing the book. “ I must not allow myself to feel that 
this marriage ceremony fills your whole horizon. Per- 
haps I have been looking at it through Genevieve’s eyes. 

“ ‘ Love is of man’s life a thing apart; 

It is a woman’s whole existence.’ 

“ Well, well ! it is a glorious thing to be a young man 
with life in all its possibilities opening before you, — 
business interests — public service — a man’s life is a 
broader one than a woman’s in the very nature of things. 

“ And by the way. Archer, while we have the oppor- 
tunity I want to recur to what we were speaking of last 
night. I have been thinking quite seriously about that 


292 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


proposition. I think there is a leading in it, my boy. 
I do, indeed. Coming to you unsolicited as it does, it 
would seem to me to be the voice of God speaking 
through the mouth of the people. It is an honourable 
ambition to wish to serve one’s kind, and the path of 
service and usefulness opens up to us but one step at 
a time. There is a call for men of character to enter 
into the councils of the State — the Nation.” 

McLain tried to speak, but the doctor was not through. 

“ I am not sure that I am giving you quite orthodox 
advice for a minister of the Gospel, for there is a dis- 
position on the part of many estimable people to look 
askance at politics and those who hold office. But the 
work must be done by some one, and if good men stand 
aloof bad men will necessarily be in control.” 

Again the young man tried to speak, but the minister 
waved his protestations aside. 

“ I know you are modest. Archer, but public offices 
should be filled by men beyond reproach. You have 
the characteristics that are especially needed just now — 
courage and integrity. I believe you can do your coun- 
try good service. Yes, the path of life is opening up 
before you, my boy, and I say to you unhesitatingly. 
Enter every open door of usefulness/' 

“ Dr. Dabney,” said the wretched man, this door is 
no longer open to me. My own hand has closed it. I 
have given up definitely all thought of public life.” 

Dr. Dabney looked over his glasses at the young man. 

“ Is not this decision sudden. Archer ? I thought last 

night you seemed to think favourably of it. In fact ” 

Yes, last night! ” said McLain, with a groan. But 
to-day ” 

The quality of despair in his voice attested that be- 
tween the two points of time was a great gulf fixed. 
Then by a superhuman effort he pulled himself together 
and looked into the clergyman’s perplexed face. 

Dr. Dabney, I have a difficult task before me, and 


CONFESSION 


293 


your generous words do not make it easier. ... It 
is hard, I say, for one man to acknowledge to another— 
especially when they bear the relation to one another 
that exists between us — that he is a fraud and a 
cheat'' — Dr. Dabney started — “but it is what I have 
come to acknowledge to you to-day. . . . You have 
shown me every kindness, every confidence, since the 
day I came into your home — and I have basely requited 
it. For in all that time my life has been one — living — • 
lie!" 

“ Archer," — Dr. Dabney spoke soothingly — “ are you 
sure you are quite well ? " He was thinking of the blow 
on the young man's head and the uneasiness it had occa- 
sioned Dr. Llewellyn. 

“ I am not delirious, doctor. ... In fact, I think 
I am just ‘ coming to myself.' But let me tell you the 
tale while I can, for I am losing my courage." 

“ Go on," said the minister. 

“ The little I have told you about myself and my early 
life is true," — the man dropped into narrative almost with 
a tone of relief. At last the thing would be out and 
the burden of secrecy roll from him. “ I think I have 
told you that I was an only child, my sister having died 
in infancy, and that my mother was a widow. My 
father was John Archer McLain, a minister who died 
when I was too young to remember him, but my mother 
has told me that she had no higher ambition for me 
than that I should be like him, — a hope which I am 
bound to say was blasted. What I did not tell you was 
that my mother married again after my father’s death — ■ 
a Mr. John A. Branham, and that I have been known 
through the greater part of my life as John Branham. 
My stepfather was a good man — an upright man — who 
had accumulated quite an amount of property, and who 
from the time of his marriage seemed fond of me. As 
the years passed and there appeared to be no prospect 
of his having children of his own to inherit his property 


THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


he conceived the idea of legally adopting me and having 
me take his name. He did so, and thereafter called me 
John, which was my first name, though to my mother 
I was always Archer. It was his fancy to have me 
John A. Branham, Jr., and the change was easily made, 
for about that time we moved to New York City, and 
I was so entered in school.” 

He paused in his recital, stooping to pick up the Prayer 
Book which had slipped from Dr. Dabney’s* hand. 

“ There are two things I shall always feel thankful 
for: one, that I never gave my stepfather an undutiful 
word; and the other, that he died when he did. If only 
my mother could have gone with him ! . . . And yet — ■ 
I have sometimes thought that if he had lived and I had 
had a father’s counsels as I was entering upon youth 
things might have been different. I had the tenderest 
mother that ever a man had, but, doctor, ^a boy needs a 
father — to tell him things, to put him on his guard 
against the temptations that are bound to come. A 
woman doesn’t know the world as a man does — she 
can’t!” 

And God be thanked I ” said the minister. “ How 
old were you when your stepfather died?” 

‘‘ About thirteen. Well, as I say, my mother gave me 
every advantage that her means could compass. I went 
through college with a fairly good record, though I must 
say, to be truthful, that it was not in the classroom that 
I excelled so much as on the athletic field. I was the 
sprinter of our team. I think I have told you all this 
before, but it is well to verify what I can as I go along.” 
He spoke scornfully. After my graduation I went 
abroad for a year as a part of my education. I had 
graduated unusually early and my mother wanted me 
to have this year before studying for a profession. I 
returned with a cough which caused her much alarm, 
as there was a tendency in the family to pulmonary 
trouble. By the advice of our physician I was hurried 


CONFESSION 295 

out West. It was a great disappointment to me, for I 
had expected to take up the study of law. 

“ I found when I returned from my trip around the 
world that I ought never to have gone, for my mother’s 
affairs were in an embarrassed condition, owing to some 
real estate being tied up. But as I said a moment ago 
she was an exceedingly tender mother and she showed 
me the mistaken kindness of keeping from me all knowl- 
edge of this embarrassment until I returned, denying 
herself to supply me with money while I was gone, 
which I am afraid I spent rather freely, — though for 
this I was not so much to blame, since I was led to 
suppose there was an abundance of it. By the terms of 
my stepfather’s will his property was to be my mother’s 
during her lifetime and at her death was to come to me. 
As it had been his wish to provide me with a liberal 
education, I felt no hesitancy in accepting this at my 
mother’s hands, nor my year of travel, which was con- 
sidered a part of my education; but when I returned to 
find her financially straitened — though only temporarily, 
I was assured by Judge Haliday, who managed her 
business — the case was different. It was very galling 
to me to find myself, a semi-invalid, dependent upon 
my mother. Yet I had no choice but to occupy that 
position, for my health of course must be the first con- 
sideration. I determined, however, to secure the first 
possible opening I could find in Salt Lake, which was 
where I went.” 

Salt Lake ! ” exclaimed Dr. Dabney. '' I remember 
now your saying so. That was where Calvin Judd 
lived.” 

Yes,” replied McLain, drily, '' that was where Calvin 
Judd lived. . . . Well, I got a position very soon in 
a bank, but at the pitifully small salary that the Western 
bank pays its young clerks. You see, so many young 
fellows go out there for their health, just as I did, 
who are willing to take almost anything, that it brings 


296 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


down wages. But, pittance though it was, I was more 
than glad to get it, for each month it grew more and 
more galling to me to feel that I, a young fellow nearly 
twenty-one, was dependent upon my mother. Doctor, it 
is a grave question in my mind whether a bank has a 
moral right to place so much opportunity to go wrong 
in the hands of a boy whose ability to resist is untried, 
and then tempt him with an inadequate salary. I have 
thought a good deal about it since. 

W ell, I took the place, and learned from my mother’s 
lawyer, not from her, how even this small lift eased the 
strain upon her. You see, my stepfather’s property was 
largely in city lots which were constantly increasing in 
value. It would pay her richly to hold on to them if 
she could be tided over in the meantime. And here 
was I a constant drain upon her at a time when I 
should have had my shoulder to the wheel instead. Do 
you see ? ” 

“ I see. It was a trying position.” 

McLain gave him a grateful look. I wish I could 
make you see as easily the temptation that came to me 
to extricate myself from this position. But I can’t do 
that because you can never make a person understand 
a temptation that is entirely outside his life and ex- 
perience — or at least his observation. I suppose you 
have never been drawn into stock gambling yourself, 
doctor ? ” — with a gleam of amusement. 

“ Never.” 

Nor lived where it is prevalent ? ” 

“ I have lived in this community all my life.” 

“ Well, naturally your position on the map and the 
isolation from business pursuits that goes with your call- 
ing would tend to keep you from real knowledge of such 
allurements.” 

I am not unaware of the enticements of the gaming 
table,” murmured Dr. Dabney, recalling a sermon in 
which the dangers had been dwelt upon. 


CONFESSION 


m 

“No. Most clergymen recognize that — theoretically. 
But I am not speaking of the gaming table. Stock 
gambling takes in a different kind of sinner — or 
sucker. ... You can’t understand it until you have 
lived in a mining community. It’s in the air. Every- 
body goes in out West — men, women, bank clerks, school 
teachers, shop-girls, office-boys, even household servants. 
It’s an actual fact, doctor! Everybody that can dig up 
ten dollars puts it into some worthless stock or other. 
But, Dr. Dabney, I don’t want to talk mining stocks to 
you except so far as it will show you the nature and 
the insidiousness of the temptation that beset me. It 
is very important to me that I should do that.” 

“ Go on. I will try to follow you.” 

“ Well, — when I got to Utah the mining business was 
booming. The Silver King had raised men from poverty 
to affluence in a night, as you may say; and on paper, 
to a tenderfoot. Golden Queen looks as promising as 
Silver King. Grand Central was going up by leaps and 
bounds; Swansea was paying monthly dividends that 
made a boy’s wage at a bank seem pitiful. Ah! the 
temptation to go in with surroundings like that is almost 
irresistible. The pressure is tremendous. It was too 
much for me.” 

“ But stocks require capital ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And you had no capital.” 

McLain drummed on the arm of his chair and looked 
out across the lawn toward the orchard where last night 
he and Jean had gone looking for harvest apples. 

“ No. I had no capital, but large capital is not always 
required for dealing in mining stocks. Perhaps you are 
thinking of investments. But I didn’t wish to invest 
money; I wanted to make it, and I could make it as 
well with Golden Queen as Silver King — or thought I 
could — if only I had a little to start with. You see it is 


S 98 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


this way, doctor — suppose a stock is selling for five cents 
a share 

“ Five cents ! Do they ever sell for as little as that? 

To the doctor “ Stocks ” were spelled with a capital 
and suggested Wall Street and large operations. 

“ Certainly. And they are the kind that get the little 
fellows. Well — for fifty dollars you could get one thou- 
sand shares, and for five hundred dollars you could get 
ten thousand shares; (and many a man has mortgaged 
his home for that five hundred, and would mortgage his 
soul for it at the rumour of a strike) — for don’t you see 
that if the stock should rise but one point — one bare 
cent — with ten thousand shares he would make a clean 
one hundred dollars; and if it rose five points — and it 
often does and far more — he would double his money in 
a day without so much as turning over his hand. You 
see?” 

“Yes. It would present a temptation. But those 
stocks must sometimes fall ? ” 

“ Oh-h-h, yes ! Sometimes they go up like a rocket 
and come down the same way. But somehow, before 
you put your money in, it is never your stock that the 
bottom is going to drop out of. You are sure of that, 
or it wouldn’t be your stock, don’t you see? And you 
look at the returns in the evening paper that you can 
hardly wait for though three months ago you never 
thought of reading such stuff as stock reports, and you 
see that Golden Queen has risen two points and you 
say, ‘ I’ve lost an even $200 by not buying yesterday,’ 
and Jones tells you at lunch about the $200 he made 
because he did buy in yesterday, and you look at Jones 
and think that if Jones could do it you certainly could, — 
and the fever gets into your veins and the madness in 
your brain and you are wild to get into the game. And 
you figure it out on paper in cold figures that won’t lie, 
and the first thing you know you have a fortune — salted 
down! — if only you had the $500! 


CONFESSION 


299 


“ I was modest. I set my figure at $300. I wasn’t 
trying for a fortune, but only for something to eke out 
my salary so that I should not have to call on my 
mother, and could show Judge Haliday it was in me, if 
I had a chance. I wasn’t going to stay in the game — 
I knew too much for that ! — but only to dip in now and 
then when it was perfectly safe. And I thought I knew 
when it was safe! . . . Isn’t it pitiful, doctor, how 
much a boy who is just reaching his majority knows! 

“ Well, the more I studied the stock list and thought 
of my own situation the more desperate I became for 
that $300. I knew I could never squeeze it out of my 
salary, for that was barely sufficient to keep body and 
soul together and enable me to dress as my position 
demanded; it wouldn’t have been except for an oc- 
casional ten or twenty dollars that my mother sent me 
surreptitiously out of her own spending money — money 
that I felt like a dog for keeping, but did keep, because 
I had to. I knew that by my stepfather’s will I was 
to have one thousand dollars when I was twenty-one. 
Judge Haliday had talked with me about it before I 
came West and urged me not to draw it out at that 
time, because in two years it would treble or quadruple 
itself. This I had agreed to do, but when Golden 
Queen went up to ten cents — and I had watched it creep 
up cent by cent — I felt that I could do better with the 
money than he could, and wrote him so — a little less 
bluntly than that — asking that $300 be sent me as soon 
as possible, the rest to remain in his hands. With 
$300 I could still get 3,000 shares, but if I had bought 
in when it was three cents my $300 would have got 
me 10,000 shares. I had lost that much by waiting. 

I had a letter of remonstrance from Judge Haliday, 
but I had written rather peremptorily and he ended his 
letter by saying that while it was not in accordance 
with his judgment he would forward to me the amount 
asked for the day I was twenty-one. I knew I could 


300 THE MASTER OF THE OAKS ” 


depend absolutely upon his doing it. My birthday was 
on the 17th, and when the 22d came I knew I should 
have the letter, allowing five days from New York, one 
more than it often took. In those five long days of 
waiting Golden Queen had been steadily going up. By 
the 22d it was fifteen cents, and $300 would now get 
me only 2,000 shares. Doctor, I wish I could make 
you understand the feverishness of anxiety with which 
I waited for that letter ! There were rumours of a strike 
up at Golden Queen and ” 

“ A labour strike ? 

Oh, no ! They had struck ore — had found the lead, 
you know.’' 

"'Yes, yes. . . . The lead. — I see.” 

I went out to lunch at twelve o’clock. The Stock 
Exchange closes at one. In the restaurant I met Jones, 
who called me over to his table. He was the one, you 
know, who had just made $200 on Golden Queen over 
night. He was a kind-hearted fellow and he gave me a 
straight tip. Golden Queen had struck it rich ! Its 
stock was soaring! . . . Well, to a young fellow of 
twenty-one another young fellow a few years older, who 
has just cleaned up $200 in a day and has a straight tip 
about a bigger thing is worth listening to. I listened to 
Jones if I didn’t to Judge Haliday. 

“ When I went out on the street I was simply crazy. 
Jones’s ‘ tip ’ had gone to my head. I had got nearly 
to Second South, where the Exchange is, before I re- 
membered that if I bought the stock I wouldn’t have the 
money to pay for it — yet. I slowed up at that and 
turned back toward the bank, thinking fast. At the 
bank door I stopped and took out my watch. It lacked 
fifteen minutes of one. I shut the watch thinking, I 
remember, that if I hadn’t paid $300 for it in Geneva 
I would have had that money now to operate in stocks 
with! . . . Think of it! Three hundred dollars to 
operate in stocks with! . . . I went to the nearest 


CONFESSION 


301 


pay telephone, shut myself in, and called up Jones’s 
broker. Could he get me some Golden Queen f 

Not to-day. Golden Queen was passed. They were 
down to Lower Mammoth now. 

What did Golden Queen close at? 

Twenty-nine and a half. It had gone up with a rush 
to-day. Rumour of a strike. Anything else? North- 
ern Light was a good buy. 

No, I didn’t want Northern Light. Then a thought 
struck me. Could he get it on the curb? 

Probably. He would try. (The “ curb ” was Greek 
to Dr. Dabney, but he did not interrupt.) 

“ For one moment I hesitated. It flashed over me 
even then that I hadn’t the money, but with it came the 
devil’s suggestion, ‘ You will have by the time the stock 
is delivered, dead sure! And if you wait, the stock will 
be beyond you.’ 

“ You know how the danger of a thing’s slipping away 
from you settles your mind that you must have it at all 
costs. I gave the order — one thousand shares of Golden 
Queen at thirty cents — no higher. For even in that in- 
sane moment I remembered that $300 was my limit. 

“ Then I went back to the bank and waited for the 
three o’clock mail. The letter didn’t come! . . . An- 
other day and it didn’t come ! . . . though the stock did 
and was paid for! . . . Another, and it didn’t come. 
But the bank examiner did! 

Dr. Dabney, if there is any blacker, deeper hell than 
I was in for that forty-eight hours, don’t ever preach 
it! . . . It was enough! 

At the close of the second day I was called into the 
president’s room. The cashier and the bank examiner 
were there. The thing was palpable. I didn’t know 
enough about it to cover my tracks. When I left that 
room I had confessed all and was under arrest — for 
embezzlement ! ” 


THE MASTER OF THE OAKS 


Couldn’t it have been arranged in some way ? ” pro- 
tested the minister. 

It could have been arranged, of course. Those 
things are settled outside of court every day in the year, 
I suppose, somewhere. But it takes money or influence 
to do it, and I had neither.” 

“ Did the letter never come ? ” 

“ Yes. The very next day after my arrest. It had 
been delayed three days by a washout! ... You 
would hardly call that a special providence, I suppose?” 

His tone was hard and bitter, and Dr. Dabney could 
only shake his head sorrowfully. 

“ My counsel took the money to the directors, making 
restitution, and entreating them to withdraw the com- 
plaint, — ^pleading my youth, the temptation, everything 
that could be brought forward as an extenuating cir- 
cumstance. It was no use I . . . The very arguments 
he brought forward they turned against him. It was 
a temptation, they admitted, a strong temptation; but 
it was one that in the very nature of the case would 
exist so long as mining operations were carried on in 
the State, and an example must be made of those who 
fell before it which would deter other young men. I 
believe there had been another case a while before and 
they had let him off. I think there were several of them 
that would have been glad to do the same for me, but 
the majority ruled. ... I suppose they were right — 
theoretically; society must be protected; and when you 
want an example it is easier to lay hands on a bungling 
boy than a robber entrenched behind a corporation. . . . 
Oh, well! I don’t mean to put up a pitiful mouth. I 
got what was coming to me, I suppose. But I’ve some- 
times thought I got what was coming to the other fellow 
too.” 

'' Archer,” Dr. Dabney bent forward in his chair, and 
McLain could see that he shook as with an ague, “ what 
I — what was the result?” 


CONFESSION 


303 


“ Ah-h-h, they got me, doctor ! They got me ! . . . 
You see, the lawyer that defended me was a young fel- 
low too — he did the best he could — but he didn’t know 
how to work it; and then having no friends near me I 
was without moral support at the trial. ... Yes, 
they made short work of it. Before I had recovered 
from the frantic bewilderment of it I had been tried — 
convicted — sentenced — and was at hard labour in the 
Utah State Prison.” 

The old minister sank back in his chair with a groan. 
He had hoped against hope to be spared this. 


XXV 


THE SITUATION OUTLINED 

M cLAIN got up abruptly and walked to the end 
of the porch looking out toward the orchard. 
The sight of that crumpled up, broken old man 
was more than he could endure. . . . But he must 
go on. Time was slipping away and there was much 
to do yet. He glanced at his watch and went back to 
his seat. Dr. Dabney looked up with a pathetic attempt 
at a smile. 

“ It took me unawares, Archer,’^ he said in gentle 
apology. “ I had thought — I had thought you would get 
off.” 

No, sir. It is in the story-books they get off — the 
little fellows like me. In real life you pay up every 
time unless you have influential friends — or have gone 
in deep! . . . Well-1, — I don’t know — perhaps it was 
right. . . . But I was so young, doctor! I was so 
young! . . . And then, while I had had what they 
call ' advantages,’ they hadn’t fitted me to cope with the 
world. I knew Latin and Greek fairly well; and the 
cathedrals by heart; I had come unscathed through 
Monte Carlo and Paris, and I thought I knew life and 
how to stand up against it. But I didn^t know its in- 
exorableness I . . . Dr. Dabney, why don’t they tell 
us beforehand what we are to meet ? ” 

They do, my boy ! They do ! . . . But you don’t 
listen!” 

McLain pondered. 

“ I guess that’s right.” 

Archer, was — was your sentence severe ? ” 

304 


THE SITUATION OUTLINED 


305 


“ No, it is what is called a ‘ light sentence/ It was 
for a year. But, Dr. Dabney, for men of my kind there 
is no ' light sentence.’ This was a short one, but ” — 
his clenched hand beat the air — “ it was long enough to 
brand me for the rest of my life ! ” His voice shook. 
“And with precisely the same brand as that thought 
fit for the assassin, the highway robber, or — worse. . . . 
Oh, it is a blundering justice that can’t make nicer dis- 
criminations than that! . . . But I must get on with 
this story. It isn’t necessary to go into detail about the 
prison life. I have no complaint to make. They treated 
us as well as they could. I never had to put on stripes 
until ” 

The narrative came to an abrupt stop. A strange 
change came over the face of the man. It stiffened with 
some pent-up emotion. When at last he looked up there 
was in his eyes a look of dumb misery that one sees 
sometimes in an animal in pain. Dr. Dabney involun- 
tarily laid his hand on McLain’s knee. There was a 
curious deadness in his tone when he spoke again. 

“ When I had been in about three months news came 
to me of my mother’s death. I knew then that I ought 
to be in for life — for I had killed her! For those three 
months I had lived on her letters and the thought that 
some day I should see her and be able to make her 
understand. But now — well, there seemed nothing more 
to try for. I don’t remember just how it happened but 
while I was in the first blackness of it a guard spoke 
roughly to me one day and ordered me to do something. 
I think I turned on him and cursed him — refused per- 
haps, — I don’t remember about it very clearly — ^but I do 
remember that he reported me as insubordinate, and I 
was put in stripes. They reserved that for a punish- 
ment. The next day I was set to work breaking rock. 
It seemed to me intolerably hard that I should be de- 
graded thus at such a time ; but then the man knew noth- 
ing about the letter. 


306 THE MASTER OF ‘‘ THE OAKS ” 


*^Well, one morning the road gang started out in 
charge of two ' trusties ’ and a guard. Among us was 
a man — a devil-may-care fellow named Mulnix, who 
was finishing a third term, — was so near through it, in 
fact, that nobody would have dreamed of his doing so 
idiotic a thing as to try to escape. But one can never 
tell what impulse a desperate man will follow. The 
guard had been standing near where Mulnix and I 
worked, side by side. As he turned away Mulnix 
dropped his hammer, caught the guard by the leg, and 
tripped him. His gun was discharged as he went down, 
wounding one of the prisoners, I learned afterwards. 
In that second all was in confusion, with Mulnix speed- 
ing down the road and I after him.’^ 

‘‘To catch him?’^ 

“No! To escape! The impulse had come over me 
as irresistibly as it had come over Mulnix, I suppose. 
Certainly, nothing was farther from my thoughts than 
making a dash for liberty one minute before I did it, 
but when I saw the guard down, the men in confusion, 
the road before me, and the canyon just beyond, a wild, 
mad impulse to run came upon me with overmastering 
force — and I obeyed it. You know I told you I was 
the sprinter of our team at college. I suppose that had 
something to do with it, for as a boy I could never see 
a straight stretch of road without wanting to try it. 

“ It seems when he got to his feet the guard thought 
I was trying to catch Mulnix, and as I was between 
them he did not fire. When I passed him, they knew 
of course that it was liberty I was after and they fired. 
The ball did not strike me and I had no time to see 
what it had done to the other man. In a moment I had 
dashed into a bend of the canyon and was out of rifle 
range. 

“ That canyon is a much travelled one, and I knew 
I was likely to run into somebody at any turn, but I 
also knew that the one important thing was to get dis- 


THE SITUATION OUTLINED 


m 

tance between me and my pursuers, and I risked the other 
danger and ran on and on and on. Never in my best day 
had I run as I did then, for this time there was a goal 
worth striving for. The canyon narrowed; its walls 
grew more precipitous; the road ran first on one side 
and then on the other of the stream; I could see glimpses 
now and then of the dugway far up above me on my 
right. 

''The dugway?” questioned Dr. Dabney. 

"Yes. The road dug from the mountain side. Al- 
most every canyon of the size of this has such a road. 
When I had gone a little farther the canyon forked, and 
I had to decide between the main road, where I could 
still make good time, the North Fork, which was more 
precipitous but far less frequented, and the dugway. 
The choice really was between the first two, for the 
dugway was too much of a highway for my present 
garb. As I stood resting and weighing the dangers of 
the two, I heard the sound of horses’ hoofs in front of 
me, and I looked about for a hiding place. 

" A little way above me was an immense boulder that 
probably had been blasted from the dugway and lodged 
here. I made instantly for it and had just crouched 
behind it when a dog trotted into view, followed by 
two or three Ute Indians, — a man, a woman with a baby 
strapped to her back, and a boy, as I could see by peep- 
ing. Evidently they had not seen me, but the thing gave 
me such a fright that I decided upon the North Fork 
with its risk of starvation. I was coming to see every 
minute more clearly the impossibility of escape in these 
cursed prison clothes. If I only had citizen’s clothes I 
would defy hunger, for I was familiar with the story 
of how the Sego Lily had become Utah’s State flower 
by virtue of having saved her people alive in a ' starving 
time.’ 

" Dr. Dabney, I shouldn’t expect you to believe what 
happened to me next if it were not that you must know I 


308 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


would not lie to you to-day, whatever I may have done 
in the past. Call it luck, providence, a devil’s chance, 
as you will (and sometimes since I have thought it was 
the latter), but as I got up and crept around the boulder 
to take up my way to the North Fork I came plump upon 
the body of a dead man! It was just below a crumbled 
place in the dugway above us and a trailing path of 
gravel and stones that had followed him down showed 
how he had fallen. A broken bottle told why. There 
was a gash on his temple where he had struck the sharp 
edge of the boulder. 

“ But it was not the man or his fate that appealed 
to me then. A dead man in a canyon is not a rare 
thing in Utah. They are found there if anywhere. I 
did not give a second look at his face. I saw nothing 
but his clothes. I can almost feel at this moment the 
swift suffocating rush of feeling that overwhelmed me 
at the thought of what those clothes meant to me — me, 
a convict, clad in tell-tale stripes! Do you see? They 
meant liberty! I can feel now the eager haste with 
which I stripped them from the poor wretch and put 
them on myself. It was the instinct of self-preservation 
at first — a mad desire to be rid of these accursed stripes 
and clothed in garments that would let me slink unchal- 
lenged through the mountain passes and out into the 
world; but as I stood ready to go and looked at the 
hated garments I had cast aside quite another thought 
came to me. I would put them on the dead man and 
leave myself there in the canyon! Perhaps he would 
not be found until identification was impossible. 

To think was to act. I put upon the helpless wretch 
the badge of my own shame. As I was finishing I 
heard a stealthy step and turned quickly to see Mulnix 
stealing toward me with an upraised club. I knew then 
that it was my life or his, for I could see in his face 
that he too knew the clothes I wore meant liberty to 
the one that got them. I waited without seeming to 



"‘I KNOW I HAVE CLIMBED THAT CLIFF ONE HUNDRED 
TIMES SINCE IN DREAMS” 




* ^ 


THE SITUATION OUTLINED 


309 


know that he was there until he was almost upon me, 
when turning suddenly I struck him with all my force 
on the jaw — a stroke I had learned at college. He 
dropped like an ox, and I left him, not knowing whether 
he were dead or alive. I never knew until I learned 
from Judd when he was here last winter.’’ 

''Judd!” thought Dr. Dabney, with a start; but he 
did not interrupt the story. 

" Well, I immediately abandoned all thought of the 
North Fork. Being now in citizen’s clothes, the thing 
for me to do was obviously to take the quickest road 
out. of the country if I could gain it. That road I knew 
was the dugway. How I got up to it I can’t tell you. 
If anybody should say it was impossible I would hardly 
dispute it. But behind me was a man who might rise 
up at any moment — and if he did I knew it would be 
with murder in his arm — I would not escape him a 
second time — and beyond me was freedom. That con- 
viction hardened my muscles to superhuman strength. 
If ever I appreciated the value of athletic training it 
was then. ... I know I have climbed that cliff one 
hundred times since in dreams! 

" At last I was on the road above — the travelled road 
where now I might meet any man and pass unnoted, 
save as in that sparsely settled region a man is always 
observed by every person he passes. Then I sat down 
to rest, for I was well spent. As I sat there wondering 
what the next move would be I heard the sound of horses’ 
feet coming toward me from the east, and before I 
could decide what to do the rumble of a wagon from the 
west, which was the direction of the city. This was 
nearer to me evidently than the other, though the wagon 
was hidden by a ledge of rock from which the roadbed 
had been blasted. These dugways are frightfully nar- 
row in places and are seldom wide enough for two 
wagons to pass except at the switches — as the occasional 
widened out places designed for this purpose are called. 


310 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


Before a man passes a jutting ledge like this he must 
stop and reconnoitre, for if he neglects it and they meet 
there somebody has to back up to the next switch. 
Well, I did not wish to be observed sitting here, so I 
went back toward the nearer wagon, the one from the 
west, and told the man (evidently a sheep-herder, from 
his wagon) that I had come to tell him another vehicle 
was between him and the switch and he’d better wait. 
He was grateful for the trouble I had taken, and offered 
me a lift if I were going his way. I was going his way 
whithersoever it led me, for his back was turned on 
Salt Lake. So when the man we were waiting for 
passed us we were two sheep-herders seated in our 
wagon, and were so reported if we were reported at all. 

“ I rode with that man many miles, as much to his 
satisfaction as to mine, apparently, for a sheep-herder’s 
life is a lonely one, and he seemed glad of an hour’s 
companionship with human kind. Do you remember my 
describing a sheep-herder’s wagon to you and Mr. Cart- 
wright once, doctor? . . . This was the one, and the 
only one I was ever in; but if my acquaintance was 
not extensive it was intimate, for I lived in that wagon 
four long months. It all came about in the most natural 
way possible. The man wanted a herder — his had gone 
home sick — and when he found that I was out of work 
he offered me the job. I took it without a moment’s 
hesitation, for it meant food, shelter, and security for 
me up in those lonely mountains. Sorensen — that was 
the man’s name — left me after he had properly in- 
structed me and convinced himself that I was trust- 
worthy, and I lived four months with the sheep and the 
sagebrush and the Book of Mormon. The man was a 
Latter Day Saint and left me that. Do you remember 
my telling you once that I had been employed by a 
Mormon? . . . This was the man. 

“ In the late fall we came down into the valley, the 
sheep so steeped in sagebrush that you could scent them 


THE SITUATION OUTLINED 


311 


a city block. Bah! I can smell it now! ... I didn’t 
accompany Mr. Sorensen to the valley, for that was the 
last place I wanted to be. I told him I was going over 
into the Uintah country, and then when he had paid me 
ot¥ I skirted Uintah and pressed on to Wyoming, and 
later into Colorado, and well, about everywhere, I 
guess, and finally down into old Mexico. I will not 
weary you with details, doctor. It is sufficient to say 
that for three years I was a fugitive and a vagabond, 
seeking rest and finding none, for before me was always 
the terrifying dread of recapture. 

“ I found positions of different kinds, but I never kept 
them. Some chance word, or glance — covert as I al- 
ways thought it — would be sufficient to throw me into 
a transport of terror, and I would throw up the whole 
thing and leave between suns. Doctor, this is the kind 
of thing that drives men mad ! and when at last I found 
myself looking behind me to see if anybody was there, 
I made up my mind that I should work on down into 
Mexico. It was in Chihuahua that I succeeded in estab- 
lishing relations with Judge Haliday. He sent me money 
and kept my secret, for he was a devoted friend of my 
family. If I had listened to his counsels I should not 
be telling you this shameful story to-day. From that 
time on I did not have to work my way, but travelled 
as any tourist doing Mexico might travel. You know 
I told you that at my mother’s death my stepfather’s 
property came to me. It had increased greatly by the 
rise of lots, and there was ample now. But ” — he shook 
his head. 

“ There was one thing I had not counted upon. That 
was the fact that other people were doing Mexico too. 
One day at a bullfight in the City of Mexico I saw a 
man I had known in Salt Lake. He was absorbed in 
the arena, and I am sure had not seen me, but I slipped 
out of my seat and was on my way out of Mexico within 
an hour. This continent is pretty large; but it is a 


812 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


place of easy transportation, and we are a nation of 
travellers. Perhaps a man might ho^e to lose himself 
in some parts of Europe, — but not in America. . . . 
Still, I made up my mind to try it in the Canadian wilds 
of Saskatchewan, and I was on my way thither when 
this railroad wreck threw me into this community. Of 
my life here you know/^ 

The voice ceased, but there came to him no word 
either of reproach or sympathy. He went on more 
hurriedly : 

“This, then, is what I am: a fugitive — not from jus- 
tice (even at this hour I protest that it was not just 
to brand a boy with a criminal’s mark for so slight a 
sin) — but from the law. As to grosser sins ” 

The old minister, sore-stricken already, raised a pro- 
testing hand. 

“ Don’t stop me ! ” McLain cried, vehemently. “ I 
mean to lay my soul bare to you now, as before God. 
This is the last time I shall ever look in your face. Dr. 
Dabney, and I will not leave myself either worse or 
better than I am. — Of gross sins I am innocent. I claim 
no merit for it. I have come of generations of men 
who have held their appetites in leash. My temptations 
did not lie that way. Had they done so I probably 
would have gone down before them, for I have shown 
myself pitifully weak.” 

Again he stopped as if gathering strength. When he 
spoke again it was with all vehemence subdued and only 
pleading in his voice. 

“ It would be impossible to make you understand, Dr. 
Dabney, what those blessed months of convalescence in 
your peaceful, godly home meant to me. For years I 
had been in a maelstrom ; — this was a quiet stream with 
scarce a ripple on its surface. Is it strange that I ceased 
struggling and drifted with the current? Here I could 
stop thinking until I was strong enough to get a firmer 
grip on things; — and when that time came I found that 


THE SITUATION OUTLINED 


313 


things had got a grip on me. I am afraid I didn’t try 
very hard at first. It was so blessed to have human 
companionship — and such companionship! 

There was a feeling of security here that I had 
never had for one moment in all those years of wander- 
ing. I dreaded unspeakably to go out in the world again. 
But I knew I must go on with my Canadian project or 
map out a new course of action. Then the thought 
came to me : Why shouldn’t I stay and make good here ? 
Tinkling Spring was off the line of travel. I could be 
as much lost here as in Saskatchewan. Who would ever 
find John Branham, the embezzler, in Archer McLain, 
plain farmer of Tinkling Spring? The thought was 
seductive. 

“ But, doctor, do you want to know what first put 
the thought into my mind that I might succeed in this 
thing ? It was something you read one night at prayers : 

' If the wicked restore the pledge,’ it went, ‘ give 
again that he hath robbed, walk in the statutes of life 
without committing iniquity ; he shall surely live, he shall 
not die.’ 

“ I listened in amazement, saying to myself : ‘ This is 
what I have done; I have restored, I have walked up- 
rightly in the statutes of life so far as I have known 
them; it is only that one black spot that I cannot rid 
myself of.’ And then. Doctor Dabney, you read on 
almost as if in answer to that cry of my soul : 

‘ None of his sins that he hath committed shall be 
mentioned unto him; he hath done that which is right; 
he shall surely live.’ ” 

Dr. Dabney reached out instinctively toward the Bible 
that lay on the taljle. 

'' I have it right, doctor ! I’ll never forget those two 
verses. I lived with them for a month. I looked it up 
and said it over to myself until I actually believed it. 
But it won’t do, doctor! It won’t do! It sounds well, 
but it is not true. It may have been under the Mosaic 


314 THE MASTER OF THE OAKS ” 


Law, but not in the Christian dispensation! No, no! 

It ought to read: 

'' ‘ Let a man restore the pledge, pay back that he 
hath robbed, walk uprightly all the rest of his days, — and 
it shall profit him nothing. The transgression of his 
youth shall be remembered against him forever. He 
may live, but he would better die.’ ” 

The minister shook his head sorrowfully. But could 
he gainsay it? 

“ As I say, the thought of losing myself here was 
seductive, but it was not that alone — I will do justice 
to myself. It was as much a consuming desire to try 
it again, to build up a worthy life, such as my father’s 
son ought to have lived ; to test it and see if it could be 
done. So, when the opportunity came without seeking 
on my part for me to cast in my lot with you people 
here by the purchase of a home, and you urged me to 
do it — taking the view that it was a leading of Providence 
— and my heart urged me more insistently even than 
you did; and I looked into Jean’s eyes and thought I 
saw urging there too, — I — well, I gave up and stayed. 
For I had grown to feel that a simple, honest, God^^ 
fearing life of daily toil, such as your people lived, would 
be of all things the most desirable, the most blessed,/' '1 
believed that I could enter such a life and begin 
again. 

“ And it seemed to me that I had a right to begin 
again. My sin had not been a heinous one. Its punish- . 
ment had been altogether disproportionate to the offence. 
If it had not been for the accident of a delayed letter 
it would never have been known as sin at all — simply an 
indiscretion. If that letter had come on time I would 
have stood before the world an upright, honourable man 
— and I should have been exactly the same man I am 
to-day too! Will you think of that? 

^ And even granting that it was a sin — I had paid ! 
surely I had paid! And having paid, I argued with 


THE SITUATION OUTLINED 


315 


my conscience, I was entitled to another life—a life 
with some joy in it.” 

“ And — you didn’t happen to think of Jean,” said the 
minister, slowly, “ and how this thing that you were 
planning might take all the joy out of life for her?” 

'' Oh-h! Doctor Dabney!” groaned the tortured man, 
dropping his head into his hands in an attitude sug- 
gesting despair. '‘I deserve that — but it’s hard!'' 

Then he lifted his head and looked into the minister’s 
face. “ I did think of Jean. For a time I thought of 
nothing else. At first it seemed monstrous to think of 
allowing her to link her pure life with mine — a crim- 
inal’s. Do you recall those moody times I used to have 
during my convalescence which gave Dr. Llewellyn so 
much uneasiness? He thought they might be caused by 
that blow on my head. They were not! That was not 
a trouble of the brain but of the heart. Conscience was 
struggling with desire. Again and again I have opened 
my lips to speak — to tell you all — and then have bitten 
off the words that were on my very tongue. And more 
often than you would perhaps believe have I come over 
here hoping to see you alone, and have seen Jean instead, 
and been overcome by temptation once more, and gone 
home with the truth untold. 

“ Doctor, do you remember my coming to you in the 
cemetery after Zeb Horn’s burial, and asking you to let 
me have a talk with you? ... You were very weary 
that day, and you asked me gently to excuse you from 
an interview just then unless — it was about my soul’s 
salvation. Was it that? ... No, I told you, it was 
not that. And I went away with the tale again untold. 
But I have wondered sometimes since if it did not 
closely pertain to my soul’s salvation, for that was the 
turning point. I had dallied with this temptation until it 
was too strong for me, but that day I was nerved to 
throttle Jt. The story of Zeb Horn had moved me tre- 
mendously. I saw in his life a forecast of what I might 


316 THE MASTER OF ‘‘ THE OAKS ” 


expect — I could never get away from this thing — I might 
as well give it up now — and the first step, the thing 
that would make it irrevocable, would be to tell my story 
to you. . . .• Doctor,/ on what small things momentous 
issues hang! You could not hear me that day, the 
moment passed, and my resolution with it. 

You know how a thought changes in its aspect from 
long dwelling upon it? You know too they say it is 
our first view of any action that gives us our truest 
conception of it. I don’t pretend to know about that, 
but I do know that in time I came to believe that if 
I were going to put my life behind me it was not 
required of me to render an account of it to any man. 
I loved Jean and felt sure I could make her happy ” — 
poor Dr. Dabney shook his head — “ and why should I 
blast her happiness as I must by telling? Thus I rea- 
soned. . . . But it was sophistry. I ought to have 
known that no worthy life could be built on the founda- 
tions of a lie. . . . And yet, — oh, of course that is 
no excuse, but — how many men do you suppose tell the 
women they marry quite all their past? — and their past 
may have been blacker than mine too! 

Yes, it was sophistry, and it did not deceive even 
myself, for I knew when I confronted my own soul, 
unclothed, that the reason I did not tell was not the fear 
of her happiness but my own. I was afraid to tell! 
Afraid that it would part us; and by this time I felt 
that I could not give her up; for, Dr. Dabney, with all 
the strength of my starved, wretched soul — I loved 
her.” 

Perhaps there was some reverberating echo of this 
cry in the old minister’s soul — echoes of a time when 
heart and reason struggled for mastery — when reason 
said, “ She is not meant for a life like yours,” — and 
passion answered, “ She is mine ! She is mine ! ” Ah, 
if this were only a question of expediency as that was ! 
He could not help seeing that his case was very, very 


THE SITUATION OUTLINED 


31T 


different, but still those echoes had a language of their 
own, and they spoke for the man before him. 

“ And, Doctor Dabney,’’ he pleaded, “ can you not see 
how she came to stand for all that was sweet and pure 
and holy in life for me — the embodiment of all I hoped 
to attain, the antithesis of what I wanted to put behind 
me? If I gave her up it seemed to me that I would 
be giving up all. Can you not see ? ” 

“ I can see, I can see,” admitted the minister, shaking 
his head in sorrowful comprehension. “ But, Archer, 
since this has been so long untold, why should you 
reveal it now ? ” 

McLain looked at him a moment without speaking, 
realizing that the worst was yet to come. Then he drew 
a letter from his pocket. 

I have here a letter from Calvin Judd,” he said, 
which seems to make it imperative.” 

‘^Was Calvin Judd a party to this deception?” Dr. 
Dabney demanded, sternly. 

“ A very reluctant party to it — yes.” 

Had you known Mr. Judd before you met him at 
my house ? ” 

“ Yes, sir. He was the officer that apprehended me 
and after my conviction took me to prison.” 

“ Is it possible ? He did not appear to recognize 
you.” 

Oh, he recognized me ! And he grilled me most 
unmercifully before your very eyes.” 

He did ? . . . I was not aware of it. I thought it 
was a most agreeable evening.” 

McLain smiled grimly. 

''Therein lay the refinement of his cruelty. Yes, sir! 
Mr. Judd took me up bodily and held me over the brink 
of the pit several times through that agreeable evening. 
That you did not know it seemed the wonder of wonders 
to me. I supposed, of course, he had come to arrest me.” 

"And he had not?” 


318 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


‘‘No, our meeting was purely accidental. Dr. Dab- 
ney, if I had not come into the house that night life 
might have been materially different for all of us, for 
this story would never have been told. Judd would not 
have known that I was in the country and ” 

“ I think I told him about you.” 

“ Yes, you did. And so did his father. But who would 
have found John Branham in Archer McLain? . . . 
No, his coming had nothing to do with me whatever. 
He had come back to see his father. Well, when I found 
out that this was so and particularly when I learned 
from him that he was then out of office, I pleaded for 
my chance, doctor. I lay down at his feet and begged 
as a dog begs to escape the lash ! ” 

“ And he agreed to it ? ” 

“ He agreed to it on one condition : that I should give 
up all thought of Jean. He had seen us together that 
evening and guessed how it might be. He said he would 
not have his old friend’s child entangled innocently with 
a criminal. I was desperate and I promised. I ought to 
have gone away then — but I couldn’t ! I simply couldn’t ! 
I had bought the place, you know, and in a way that 
held me, and then I felt that I would rather be near her 
even if I couldn’t have her. I thought I would be 
strong enough for that — but I was not. I found myself 
weaker than I had thought. After a few months of this 
I wrote Judd that I would be bound by my promise no 
longer — that I was going to marry her if I could — and 
that if necessary I should tell her all and throw myself 
upon her mercy. Then I asked him to tell me plainly 
what he proposed to do. That letter precipitated his 
second visit.” 

“ I remember that he asked me many questions,” 
murmured the minister ; “ your standing in the com- 
munity; how I myself esteemed you; what William 
Llewellyn thought of you; I remember it all. And this 
was what it meant! He told me that he had taken a 


THE SITUATION OUTLINED 


319 


fancy to you and was thinking of taking you into part- 
nership with him in some scheme he had on foot. I 
knew you had some money to invest, and while the risk 
would be yours, I thought it was but natural that he 
should want to know the character of man you were. . . . 
And that was it ! . . . Well, well ! ” 

And do you remember that he put a hypothetical 
question to you once — not in connection with me at all — 
about a man he had known in the West who had broken 
jail, and about his coming across him years afterwards — 
about how he believed the man was in earnest in his 
determination to lead a different life — about how he was 
esteemed by his fellow-townsmen, etc., etc., even his 
pastor, — and then demanded to know of you what was 
his duty in the case — to denounce or to condone? Do 
you remember that ? 

'' I do, I do. It made a deep impression upon me, 
for Calvin seemed greatly troubled about his responsi- 
bility in the matter, more than I could quite understand.” 
'' Do you remember what you told him ? ” 

Not my exact words, but ” 

“ I can give them to you. You said, ‘ Calvin, if the 
man is truly penitent leave him to the Almighty. He 
will find him, and will deal with him.’ ” 

“ I remember it,” murmured the minister. How 
little I dreamed I was deciding my own child’s des- 
tiny ! . . . ‘ For every idle word ’ we shall be called 
into judgment! . . . For every idle word! . . . 
My own dear child ! ” 

It makes a difference, doesn’t it? ” said McLain, with 
a touch of bitterness that was not unnatural perhaps. 
“ Well, it was that advice that turned the scale. Judd 
said to me when he told me of it, ‘ The doctor knows 
better than I do about ethical questions. Acting on his 
advice I am going to turn you over to the Almighty.’ 
And in the recklessness of my joy and belief, I said to 
him, ‘ Only keep your hands off, Judd, and I’ll risk the 


SW THE MASTER OF ‘‘ THE OAKS ” 


Almighty ! ’ . . . But He found me, doctor ! . . . 
And He has dealt with me ! 

He handed the letter to the minister, who held out a 
shaking hand, for the young man’s solemnity had raised 
new forebodings. “ This letter makes plain the whole 
situation which the long story I have been telling leads 
up to.” 

'' Will you read it to me. Archer ? ” the minister said 
after glancing at it. “ My sight is poor to-day.” 

McLain took the letter and read with unfaltering voice. 
When he stopped, a silence fell upon them. It was 
broken at last by Dr. Dabney. 

“ When did you get this letter. Archer ? V 

‘‘ Last night, after I left here.” 

'^Ah! Then you have had time to think it over — 
carefully.” The word “ prayerfully ” came to his lips 
from long habit, but he changed it. ‘‘ And you have 
come to ask me ” 

“ No, doctor. I have not come for advice to-day. 
This is the kind of thing a man has to decide for himself. 
I have come to tell you — that ” — again in the man’s eyes 
was that look of dumb animal pain that had been there 
once before that day — '' that I give up all thought of Jean 
— forever. And — I am going to give myself up.” 

The stillness that fell upon them then was to the 
outer ear like that of the grave; to the inner, it was a 
silence in which pulsing waves of speech beat upon them. 

Does the letter make it clear to you why I must do 
this, doctor ? ” McLain asked gently at last ; for the old 
minister looked almost stunned, so rapidly had the story 
moved, and so overwhelming had been its conclusion. 
“ You see, the man is in the penitentiary for life unless 
I give myself up. Of course 1 have thought of writing 
to Judd and authorizing him to tell all he knows and try 
to effect the man’s release — I in the meantime quietly 
leaving the country for Canada as I had before intended 
doing. But I doubt if this would secure the man’s par- 


THE SITUATION OUTLINED 


321 


don. And beside, it would in a way involve Judd. I 
should be sorry to do that ; he has tried to help me. And 
even supposing I could get off to Canada — I hadn’t served 
out my time, you know — it would make me a fugitive 
the rest of my life. I can’t go back to that! I would 
rather face the thing and have it over. It will set Mulnix 
free, at any rate.” 

Poor Dr. Dabney! All his life long he had talked 
with men of sin, a transgression of the law of God, and 
its cure; but when it came to a transgression of the law 
of man and the means of extrication from the labyrinth 
in which the criminal finds himself, he was dumb. He 
could only fall back upon the weapons of the armory 
he knew best. 

‘ Greater love hath no man than this,’ ” he murmured, 
^ that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ ” 

My friend ! ” cried McLain, with contempt. Do 
you suppose a creature like this is my friend? . . . 
Why, I loathe the man! He is low and vicious and 
depraved. He is not worth saving. If he goes free he 
will be back inside of a year. There is no doubt of it 
whatever. He has served three terms, and criminolo- 
gists tell us that after the second most men are hope- 
less. . . . Oh, I’ve been over all that, doctor ! ” A 
sorrowful shake of the head indicated the impotence of 
this line of argument. “ He is an ordained criminal if 

ever there was one. And yet ” 

He struck his knee with a clenched hand. 

‘‘ Brutish as he is, — double-dyed criminal though he 
may be — and innocent as I am of putting him there — 
the thing resolves itself always into this: Can I see this 
man thrust back into hell, just as he has crawled out, 
and by my silence hold him there — to save myself? . . . 
Well, I can’t do it! . . . That’s all there is to it. I 
want to ! . . . Oh, I want to ! But — I can not do it.” 

Then his lips curved in a smile in which there was 
no mirth. 


322 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


But don’t think it is love to my fellow-man — or 
benevolence — or any generous feeling that impels me to 
go back. ... No, no ! . . . It is nothing but a cold 
— hard — unyielding sense of justice that will not com- 
promise.” 

It was Dr. Dabney’s voice that broke the silence. 

“ God has many ways of revealing Himself, my son. 
Justice is one of His attributes.” 

Again McLain smiled. “ As I see it in myself it 
does not seem exactly God-like, — ^but I can’t get away 
from it, just the same. . . . But enough of myself. 
You have the whole miserable story now, and know why 
I have to go.” 

He stopped, but it wa^ plain that he was but gather- 
ing strength to go on. He took up the Prayer Book 
absently and it fell open at a mark put in at the marriage 
service, seeing which, he closed the book hastily. 

Of course — though I can hardly expect you to be- 
lieve this ” — he was still smarting under the lash of Dr. 
Dabney’s quiet words, You didn’t happen to think of 
Jean ? ” and he chose his own with painful deliberation, 
as one picks his way over a dangerous pass, — “ my first 
thought, as it will be my last, was of Jean and the effect 
this will have on her life.” 

“ Ah-h, Jean!” groaned the old man. “Jean! . . . 

‘ Her house is left unto her desolate.’ ” 

McLain gripped the arms of his chair. 

“ That is the bitterest drop wrung out to me to-day. 
Dr. Dabney. God knows I never meant to do her the 
bitter wrong I’ve done. I meant to love and cherish and 
protect her so long as I lived. And instead, I have 
brought ruin upon her and sorrow and disgrace to you 
both.” 

“ Don’t think of me, my son. I am old and — world- 
weary. My span is almost over. But Jean — with life 
before her. . . . ah-h ! ” 

He did not mean to be cruel, this gentle, tender- 


THE SITUATION OUTLINED 


S2S 

hearted old man — but he was sore-stricken. Jean was 
his one ewe lamb! Every faltering word wrung from 
him, every sigh forced back almost before it was 
breathed, was a knife to McLain. 

“ Dr. Dabney, if I could only blot myself out of her 
life and leave her the joyous, care-free girl she was 
before an evil chance flung me into it — I think I could 
take up Mulnix’s sentence almost with joy. But — I can’t 
do it ! ” 

He stretched out his clenched hands and let them drop 
with a despairing gesture, repeating in a hoarse whisper : 

God ! . . . God ! . . . I can’t — do it I ” 

“ No,” said the solemn voice, “ onfy God can blot out 
sin, and not even He can rid us of its consequences. 
Vicarious sutTering! . . . Ah, how it runs through the 
world! The innocent for the guilty! . . . Jean! — 
my little Jean ! ” After a time he asked with some 
hesitation, '' Shall you try to see her. Archer ? ” 

The young man shook his head without looking up. 

“ No, I think not. It would be hard on her, and ” 

Dr. Dabney tried to keep the relief out of his voice 
as he answered, “ Perhaps you are right. We will shield 
her all we can — now.” 

McLain felt the sting of the qualifying word. 

Yes. You are right — it is late to begin. Doctor — 
I know you will tell it all to her gently, but — try to 
soften it as much as you can, won’t you? . . . And 

then — tell her . . . tell her from me . . . that ” 

“ I will,” the minister said, laying his hand compas- 
sionately on the bowed head. 

Poor old gentleman ! The waters were surging about 
him too. With Jean’s poor bark torn from its moorings 
and cruelly swamped with Archer whom he loved as 
a son drifting out without chart or compass into un- 
fathomable seas, never to be so much as sighted again 
with the wreckage of the storm floating about him 
whithersoever he turned — shattered ideals, broken faith. 


3U THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


confidence betrayed, blighted hopes, purposes overturned, 
— it is small wonder that the very ground seemed crum- 
bling beneath his feet. The world was rocking around 
him — and there was nothing to hold to. Nothing — but 
the Rock of Ages ! 

Archer, would you mind a word of prayer ? ” 

McLain shook his head. 

The old minister knelt down beside the man who had 
destroyed his home, a shaking hand laid on his knee, 
his white locks touching the brown, and prayed — plead- 
ing with God as a man pleadeth for his neighbour.” 

When he had finished, they rose together, McLain 
quite master of himself again. 

“ Thank you, doctor ! I shall not forget that. There 
are two or three things I want to speak to you about, 
and then I must be going. ... Yes, to-night. After 
I start I shall telegraph Judd to meet me in Salt Lake — 
I don’t care to do that here — he will know better than 
I just what I am to do. I wanted to speak to you about 
Jean’s furniture — the mahogany, you know, that was her 
mother’s.” 

''Yes, yes. I had forgotten about it.” 

" It can come back at any time you wish. It was 
foolish, I suppose, to have brought it over so soon, but 
— she^ wanted it done, and ” 

" I will attend to it. Archer.” 

" Another matter. I have sent my will with some 
other papers to Judge Haliday, who has charge of my 
business in New York. I made it months ago, and there 
is no reason why it should be changed. I should want 
everything to go to Jean just the same as if — as if it 
had ended differently. But I should like to have the 
tenant house and ten acres reserved for Mrs. Debo and 
Sandy. That is why I speak of it. I had no time to 
make that change, but Jean will see that it is done if 
anything happens to me. They have had hard lines 
too, and I want to see them provided with a home. . . . 


THE SITUATION OUTLINED 


325 


I shall leave things just as they are there for the present. 
Mrs. Debo will take care of the house and make what 
she can from the farm. I shall sell the place eventually, 
of course, but there is no time for that now. It will 
have to wait until’' — his hand closed spasmodically — 
“ until I am out.” 

There was an awkward pause, which Dr. Dabney broke 
rather tremulously. “ Archer, you will let us hear from 
you — occasionally ? ” 

No-o, — I think not. . . . It’s all over, doctor, and 
the best thing now will be for me to drop out of your 
lives. ... It will make it easier for her to — ^get over 
it.” 

Ah-h ! I am afraid she will never quite get over 
it. . . . But perhaps you are right, perhaps you are 
right! ... Yes. I believe you are.” 

'' Dr. Dabney,” — the young man stood before him in 
proud humility — “ you have been very generous to me — 
far more than I have deserved — and — I am going now. 
Would — would you be willing to shake hands with me ? ” 

The old minister threw his arm around the young 
man’s shoulder and grasped the outstretched hand. 

“ Good-bye, my son ! . . . Good-bye ! ” He clung 
to him, feeling himself as well as Jean bereft — “ sorrow- 
ing most of all that . . . that they should see his face 
no more.” Then he raised his hands in tremulous bene- 
diction : 

The Lord bless thee, and keep thee : The Lord make\ 
his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee : | 
The Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give 
thee peace.” 

As they stood thus, one with bowed head, the other 
with eyes raised to heaven, whence only to him could 
help come, a slight noise startled them, and they both 
looked up. 

There in the doorway, with face white as the dead, 
but with burning eyes, stood Jean! 


XXVI 


A NEW FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH 

ENEVIEVE ! My child ! ” 

f Instinctively Dr. Dabney stepped in front of 

her as if to shield her. But she came straight 
to him and put her arm about his neck, saying quietly : 

You do not need to tell me anything, father. I have 
heard every word.” 

His arm tightened around her; but his fears were 
groundless; she was the strong one of the three. Dr. 
Dabney was greatly shaken; and at sight of her McLain 
had dropped back into his chair, his hand covering his 
eyes to shut out her accusing face. At last she knew 
all, — what he was, whence he had come, and the degra- 
dation to which he must go back. He set his teeth and 
waited. As he sat thus he felt the touch of a hand on 
his shoulder. 

“ Poor boy ! ” she said, compassionately. Poor boy ! 
And you tried to bear it all by yourself! Why, dear, 
what are women for if it is not to help at a time like 
this?” 

The shoulder under her hand trembled, but he neither 
raised his eyes nor stirred, and she knelt down by him, 
taking the passive hand that lay on his knee and pressing 
it against her cheek, her head close to his bowed one. 

“ I did not mean to listen to a story that you did not 
want me to hear. Archer; but I had come home earlier 
than I expected — I didn’t go to town — and I was lying 
on the couch right by the window, and I couldn’t help 
hearing. At first it didn’t make any difference if I did 
hear, and then when it did make a difference — I couldn’t 
go! I had to hear then! 

326 



INSTINCTIVELY DR. DABNEY STEPPED IN FRONT OF HER 

AS IF TO SHIELD HER 






A FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH 3^7 


“ But I am glad I heard you tell all the story, Archer. 
Dreadful as it is, I feel now that I know the worst. 
I’ve always felt there was something you kept back, and 
it hurts a woman to feel that. . . . Father, don’t go. 
All I have to say I want to say before you too. I feel 
now that there is nobody in the world but just us three 
— and God. ... No, dear, you must never, never 
feel again that you have to bear it alone. We are going 
to help you, aren’t we, father? 

“And, Archer, I am glad you are going back. Of 
course not glad that you must go, but glad that since 
you know it is the right thing you are strong enough to 
do it. . . . And it was the only way, dear. I can see 
that now, just as you do. When anybody gets into the 
wrong path, there’s nothing he can do but just get back 
into the right one, at any cost, and then go on the best 
he can. You had gone away into the far country, but 
now you are coming home. That was always our favour- 
ite story, wasn’t it, father? And do you remember how 
happy we were when the prodigal got tired of the husks 
and started back? and how glad that the father ran to 
meet him? You used to tell me he did that because 
he knew it would be very hard for the poor boy to 
come all the way alone. . . . But Archer, dear — 
(Archer, please look at me!) — when you come back 
from — from that place, we’ll run to meet you, and we 
will go to our own home, and it shall be just as we had 
planned.” 

He stood up then and caught her hands in his, holding 
her from him with arms that ached to enfold her, but 
permitting himself only to feast his eyes on the divine 
compassion and sweetness of her face. 

“No! No! Not that, Jean! Base as I seem, I will 
not accept at your hands a sacrifice like that ! ” 

“But, Archer!” She smiled up at him, the pitiful 
smile of lips that quiver; and he smiled back too, but 


328 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


shook his head, repeating, “ No ! . . . No ! . . . 
No!” 

“ Genevieve, my child,” said Dr. Dabney, greatly 
agitated, “ do nothing precipitate.” 

But, father, this isn’t precipitate. I’ve been think- 
ing of it a long, long time. I’m years older than I was 
this morning. I am sure I’m right, father, because it 
was your prayer that made it all plain to me. You know 
you’ve always told me that when we come to a time of 
utter need we’ll find God waiting for us. I don’t think 
I ever quite understood it before, though of course I’ve 
always prayed. . . . But, father, it is true! . . . 
At first everything seemed so dark ! so dreadful ! — 
(Archer, don’t hold me off! I want to come close to 
you! We never will need each other more than we do 
now!) ... Yes, it was the prayer, father. I know 
you will be glad of that. Everything was so dark at 
first. It seemed to me I never never could find a way 
out. But when you asked God for light. He gave it 
to me. And when you asked Him for leading, it almost 
seemed to me that I could feel His hand. . . . And 
then. Archer dear, I just let Him guide me and He 
led me out of that labyrinth straight to you. 

He showed me the real man you are instead of the 
man you seem, because I asked Him to, and then it was 
made clear to me all in a moment that it doesn’t really 
make any difference what people think about us, if only 
we are right, — and so the horror and the disgrace of 
it seemed to slip away from me. And I understood all 
you wanted to say — and couldn’t; all you wanted father 
to tell me, — that you loved me and would always love 
me, — that you wanted me to try to forgive you, and then 
forget. . . . Wasn’t that it? . . . And, dearest!” 
— she broke from him then and took his face between 
her hands, I do forgive you. I know you never meant 
to harm me. But don’t ask me to forget! I never can 
do that — for 1 love you, Archer — love you and believe 


A FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH 3^9 


in you in spite of all. And I am going to be true to you 
as long as we live ! 

It was not in mortal man to resist that, and he strained 
her to him, raining kisses on her tear-wet face. 

When they thought at last of anybody but themselves. 
Dr. Dabney was gone — gone to plead, not for them, but 
for himself. 

Oh, Jean,’' the man cried, contritely, “ I didn’t mean 
to do it! I couldn’t help it! Your face so close to me 
maddened me. But don’t think it means I am going to 
let you make this sacrifice. I couldn’t do that ! ” 

'‘Why, Archer, why, if I want to do it? It is my 
life, to do with as I choose.” 

“ Shall I tell you — plainly ? ” 

Yes— plainly.” 

Because you do not realize — cannot realize — what it 
would be to link your life with that of a man who has 
been a convict. Ah-h! You shrink from that, even 
now ! ” For a shiver that she could not control passed 
through her. 

'' It was only because you put it so ” 

'' So brutally ? That’s true. I didn’t try to soften it. 
But, Jean — it is the way the world will put it for the 
rest of the time. . . . No! I’ll save you from that, 
at least.” 

They sat down on the steps then as they had sat last 
night when they were mapping out a different future, 
and talked it over long and sanely. And always at the 
end of every argument she brought forward was his 
inexorable “No! . , . No!” 

“ You are under excitement now, Jean,” he told her 
again and again in varying phrase, “ but the reaction is 
bound to come. It may come to-morrow, when you find 
yourself without me; or it may be weeks — ^months — 
even years — before the full force of this thing is driven 
in upon you. But when it is, it must not find you 
bound! That’s what I mean.” 


330 THE MASTER OF THE OAKS ” 


But, Archer,’" she protested, “ you were the same 
man last night that you are to-day. You would have 
let me marry you then. And you had been — in prison, 
too.” 

Oh, Jean!^' he groaned, ‘Mon’t say that to me! 
That’s where the baseness of it comes in. I was the 
same man I am to-day — an escaped convict. And I 
would have let you marry me — ^because I wanted you 
sol. . . But then you didn’t know I That’s a man’s 
argument, I suppose; but after all it saves a woman pain 
sometimes. This was my black spot to be covered up; 
and I planned to guard you jealously from a knowledge 
of it. I thought I could do it. I honestly believed I 
could keep it from you always, and make you happy. 
And,” he clenched his hand, if this cursed thing hadn’t 
come up just as it did, I believe I could have done 
it. . . . But you know now! And don’t you see it 
would be between us, always? 

‘‘ Why, Jean,” he said a moment later, suppose I 
should let you do this thing, and then when we were 
married and it was irrevocable (for it would be irrevo- 
cable with a woman like you. You are not the kind to 
marry a man for ^ better,’ and then cast him off when 
you find it is for ' worse ’) — and then when it was irrevo- 
cable, I say, you should come some day to see that it 
was a mistake! Ah-h! you don’t know what regret is! 
There is more in that word than most people see. You 
women think of it as a symbol for the amiable hypocri- 
cies of social life, — but wait till you fathom it! Stand 
where I stand to-day facing the black depths to which 
my own feet have brought me, and think back to the 
time when one step turned me away from an honourable 
career — and the house over yonder! . . . Just one 
step! — but it changed the direction of my whole life, 
and it will change the direction of yours. There has 
not been a time since that I wouldn’t have given ten 
years of my life to get back one little three minutes ! . ; . 


A FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH 331 


Ah, Jean ! that’s regret ! . . . Well, I’m going to save 
you from it, little girl ! ” 

“ That day would never come for me. Archer. It is 
not the same at all.” 

“ It would come ! It would come ! ” he said. “ Per- 
haps not at first, for a woman’s love and her capacity 
for sacrifice will lead her into endless follies for a man ; 
and it does seem sometimes as if there were a glamour 
thrown over the very sacrifice itself! But the witchery 
of a glamour never lasts, Jean, and when it is gone we 
see things as they are. ... It seems impossible to 
you now that that time should ever come — but some 
day ” — he was sitting with his arm around her, his eyes 
looking straight before him into space, as if he were 
trying to visualize some shadowy, far-off picture, and 
when he spoke again it was in a voice low and freighted 
with infinite tenderness — “ some day ... it might be 
— when you looked into the face of a little child — and 
remembered that its father had been a criminal — and 
the brand was on its tender flesh ... it would come 
— and come to stay.” 

He felt the thrill that ran through her, but she only 
moved imperceptibly closer to him. 

“And when I saw it in your face (for I should see 
it — you could not hide it from me — and don’t you know 
I should be always looking for it, always fearing it?)— 
when I saw it in your face I should know, from my own 
heart, that you were looking bacfc to this hour, as I 
look back to my hour of choice, and saying to yourself 
as I have said one thousand times, ‘Oh, why did I 
doit?’” 

He shook his head. “ I couldn’t risk that, Jean! . . . 
No, no! . . . It would be tragedy for you— but for 
me it would be— hell! Then would be the time you 
would have to hide the pistol— for I should have to 
end it! 

“But don’t think it hasn’t helped me, Jean,— your 


3S2 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


sweet, unselfish willingness to make this sacrifice. It 
has made me strong! strong enough to put behind me 
the temptation it carries with it — strong enough to go 
back and take my punishment like a man and not a 
slave. Jean, Jean! you’ve put heart into me! To know 
that you ‘ love me and believe in me in spite of all ’ — 
I’ll take that back with me, dear. If anything in God’s 
universe could bring a man up out of the depths, it would 
be that.” 

And so, after much talk, they left it, because he would 
not have it otherwise. She was to be free, absolutely 
free, with no thought of anything between them ever 
in the future. 

But, Jean,” he said afterwards, toying with her 
hand, I want you to wear my ring always if you will — 
in memory of me, just as if I had died in any other 
way. Only — now I must say this, dear, even though 
it may seem unfeeling to you, in your present mood — 
if the time should ever come when you want to wear 
a ring put on your hand by another and better man 
than I am send this back to me without a word, and I 
will know. You needn’t ask forgiveness then for hav- 
ing changed — it is all forgiven beforehand; nor spend 
any time in explaining how it happened. It would be 
awkward for you, and I would know anyway. It will 
happen — if it does — because it ought to happen! You 
ought not to go through life widowed because I die 
to you to-day. Some time perhaps I shall be strong 
enough to hope you will not — but just at this moment I 
am a trifle weak.” He smiled down at her in the old 
way, and patted her cheek with a familiar movement 
that pierced her heart. 

“ I am not going through life widowed,” she said, 
half laughing, half sobbing. “ When you’re — out, I’m 
going to be a wife ! ” 

And again he smiled into her eyes and shook his head. 

When it came to the question of severing all con- 


A FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH 333 


nection even by letter she was as obdurate as he had been. 

“ I shall write to you as often as the rules of the prison 
permit. Don’t tell me that I mustn’t, Archer, for I will. 
I will do it ! whether you want me to or not, and whether 
you answer my letters or not.” 

“ Jean, do you understand the censorship of a prison? 
Do you know that every word you write will be read 
by another before it reaches me?” 

No-o, I didn’t know it. I had never thought any- 
thing about it. But it doesn’t make any difference to me 
if it is. I shall write, just the same. Why, Archer, 
you will need my letters — to help you bear it. Don’t you 
know you will be glad to get them ? ” 

He laughed outright at that. That weary waste 
stretched out before him like Sahara. Would a man 
dying of thirst on a parched desert be glad of water ? 

“ I cannot truthfully say, Jean, that I shouldn’t be 
glad to get them,” he said, drily, “ but I will say that it 
would be better for you if you did not write them. You 
would forget me sooner.” 

“ I am not going to forget you. And I don’t intend 
that you shall forget me.” 

“ That danger is the smallest that confronts me,” he 
said. 

Indeed, a greater one was confronting them at that 
very moment, — the risk of such a correspondence. How 
should her letters be sent to him? If to plain John A. 
Branham, they might go astray. More specific direction 
would surely prove fatal to secrecy in a curious country 
neighbourhood. The decision was that for the present 
her letters should be sent under cover to Calvin Judd, 
■who would remail them. McLain was sure of Judd’s 
willingness to co-operate with him in anything that 
would secure secrecy And the more they thought of the 
practical side of this thing the more desirous they both 
became to avoid publicity. 

“It isn’t as it was before,” she argued. “You had 


334 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


no right then to ask me to share your life, and hold this 
back from me, for then it was a guilty secret. But now, 
since you have expiated (or will have when I see you 
again) ” — she put her arms around his neck, the joy of 
that time already in her eyes, and her lips close to his, 
and he kissed her, of course, — what man would have 
done differently under this provocation ? — “ now it is our 
secret and we have a right to keep it if we choose — and 
if we can.’’ 

“ Yes — if we can,” he said, less confidently than she. 

‘‘ How many persons know this ? ” 

“ Four. You, your father. Judge Haliday, and Calvin 
Judd. I have written to these two to-day.” 

‘'Is Judge Haliday trustworthy?” 

“ Absolutely. He has kept my secret for five years, 
and would guard my name as he would his own. He 
promised my mother on her deathbed that he would 
never reveal it.” 

“And Mr. Judd?” 

“ I have perfect confidence in Judd.” 

“ Well, I am sure of father. And there is just one 
left, but that one is a woman. Do you think she could 
be trusted?” 

“ I should trust her with my soul ! ” he cried, passion- 
ately, straining her to him. 

“ Then I can see no reason why this should not be 
kept forever, a solemn secret known only to us four. . . . 
If it cannot be, we will face it together!” Her head 
was thrown up and her eyes shining. 

“ We’ll try it first,” he said, infected with her courage, 
but even at that moment remembering Zeb Horn. 

Another question arose. 

Not unnaturally their minds had been dwelling on the 
past and the future — but after all, it is the present that is 
the important thing, for that must be met. The past, 
with its weaknesses, its mistakes, its sorrows, and its 
sins, is cast in a mould. We cannot change it by a hair. 


A FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH 335 


Futurity is in the flux, subject to the mutation of in- 
visible forces which we may or may not control. But 
the present, like the poor, we have always with us; and 
for it we may give most humble and hearty thanks, 
for our to-days, which we are sometimes inclined to be- 
little, are the plastic material from which our yesterdays 
and our to-morrows are moulded. 

This truth had been pressed sharply home upon 
McLain by his own experience, but it was presenting 
itself to Jean in an eminently practical aspect. What 
explanation was to be given of their sudden change of 
plans ? McLain’s abrupt withdrawal from the com- 
munity at this time would precipitate a flood of question- 
ing comment from which they both shrank unspeakably. 

It will be hardest for you, Jean,” he said, as they 
talked it over, “ and I cannot protect you from it.” 

Yes,” she admitted, with a drawing in of her breath, 
“ it will not be easy. But, Archer, I am willing to bear 
part of the hardness. I am glad you don’t have it all. 
The people I dread most are the ones I know best. I 
don’t know what I shall say to Aunt Lavinia. I care 
more for her than for Aunt Josephine, even.” 

Well might she shrink. For if there be anything 
sharper than the slings and arrows of outrageous for- 
tune it is the needle points of intimate curiosity. 

'‘You have not told anybody you are going away?” 
she asked. 

“Yes, I have told Mrs. Debo — that much and no 
more. And I have written a letter to the committee that 
waited on me about the nomination, saying to them that 
I had been called away, and that the time of my return 
was uncertain, but that it would probably not be until 
after the election.” 

“ Who were those men, did you say ? ” 

“Mr. Cartwright, John Bascom, and Major David- 
son. I wrote the letter to John Bascom.” 

“Well, that will do for an announcement,” she said. 


336 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


“ All those men have wives ! And there is another 
thing: those women will every one of them think your 
going away is because you have broken with me. And 
when my furniture comes home, that will make it 
doubly sure. I don’t know that we will need to make 
any explanation at all. Nobody will dare to ask father 
or me, and when they ask Aunt Lavinia (as they will) 
she will know nothing to tell.” 

‘‘You will not tell her then?” 

“ Certainly not ! Dear auntie ! she would give it away 
in her efforts to keep it. . . . No, Archer, it is ‘ we 
four and no more.’ You can depend on that.” 

Already they were feeling the strength that comes with 
union, and the closeness that inheres in a community 
of interests and dangers. Somehow, this conference 
about pressing practical things had knit their hearts to- 
gether anew. 

And so, with brave words to keep up each the other’s 
courage, the end came and he went away. 


XXVII 


THEY ALSO SERVE 

P OOR Jean! Hers was the thorn road. If to the 
man in the hard schooling life was giving them 
had fallen the imperative of the verb ‘‘ to do,” to 
the girl had been assigned no less inexorably “ to bear,” 
in all its moods and tenses. And it is still an open ques- 
tion whether the active voice requires more real en- 
durance than the passive. 

When the morrow rose upon a world in which Archer 
McLain no longer moved, it seemed to Jean that the 
sun was blotted out. How could she face it? . . . 
Where — where, she asked herself, despairingly, was the 
courage that sustained her yesterday? Ah! we have all 
asked it in the grey of the morning! 

A hundred doubts assailed her. What explanation 
could she make of this sudden change of plans? What 
should she say this very pressing moment to Aunt 
Lavinia? And how could she face a congregation of 
familiar, enquiring faces and sing? 

When she went downstairs and out upon the piazza 
Dr. Dabney with downcast mien was pacing back and 
forth. He had aged ten years. 

Good-morning, father.” 

She spoke so cheerfully that as he met her smile the 
years rolled from his shoulders. She was not broken — 
his brave girl ! He drew her tenderly to him and with 
his arm close about her they continued to walk up and 
down the piazza, reinforcing one another with unspoken 
sympathy. 

“ I have broken it to your Aunt Lavinia,” he said at 
last, stopping at the farther end and speaking guardedly. 
337 


338 THE MASTER OF THE OAKS ” 


“ I told her that something had come between you — it 
might be only temporary — but that you were feeling it 
a good deal and she’d better not say anything to you. 
I — I think I misled her. Indeed, I am afraid I meant 
to mislead her.” 

“ Poor father ! ” she said. ‘‘ It is hard for you to be 
anything but frank and open, isn’t it? But don’t feel 
troubled. You couldn’t have spoken more judiciously 
or more truthfully. Something has come between us and 
it is only temporary.” 

She felt intuitively that he winced, and with that 
thought her strength flowed back to her. 

Shall you go to church, my daughter ? ” 

‘‘ Yes, father. It would cause comment if I were not 
there. We must avoid that if possible.” 

“ It will be hard for you.” 

*'Yes, it will be hard for us both. We are not on an 
easy road now. What is your subject, father?” 

It is a strange coincidence, Genevieve, if it be a 
coincidence. The sermon I had prepared, and shall 
preach, is from the text : "For we have not an High 
Priest that cannot be touched with a feeling of our 
infirmities ; but was in all points tempted like as we are, 
yet without sin.’ I wrote it with Zeb Horn in my 
mind.” 

"" " Touched with a feeling of our infirmities ! ’ Oh, 
father, was it written for him?” 

The church to which Dr. Dabney ministered was a 
social as well as religious centre. The congregation 
gathered early. What a metropolitan club is to its mem- 
bers the Tinkling Spring horse-blocks was to the assem- 
bling worshippers; and whoever conceives that gregari- 
ousness and loquacity are strictly feminine characteris- 
tics need only observe the assemblage thereabout to be 
disabused. 

The sisters promptly repaired to the sanctuary and held 


THEY ALSO SERVE 


339 


reunions there, but the brethren — always less hampered 
by conventions and rejoicing in greater license — lounged 
about the horse-blocks and in the shade of friendly oaks, 
discussing politics and neighbourhood happenings. Only 
the final unveiling of motives will reveal whether it is 
true piety or the social instinct that makes the rural 
churchman so conspicuously outshine his city brother 
in church attendance. Perhaps the oft-asked question: 
“ How can we get the men to church ? ’’ might be satis- 
factorily answered thus : “ By confining them each to a 
ten-acre lot for the preceding six days — with the pri- 
maries coming on.” 

“You saw him?” demanded one of the men of Mr. 
Cartwright. 

“ We saw him.” 

“Did he give you an answer?” 

“ No, not right off. He had to think it over.” 

“ He seemed favourable to it, did he ? ” 

“ I think so. He was to let John Bascom know his 
decision.” 

“ He'll make a good representative, McLain will,” said 
a sunburned farmer. He assumed that no man in his 
senses would decline such an honour. 

Mr. Freno was standing modestly on the outskirts, 
as became a man who was socially about halfway between 
the creek and the prairie. “He’s a man that’s got a 
mighty kind heart,” he said, reflectively, “and a heap 
of feelin’ for them that’s down.” 

At this moment the sound of singing was heard and 
the politicians repaired to their seats, having missed the 
invocation and the first hymn. 

There was one in that congregation who had not 
missed it in any sense. This was Dr. Llewellyn. 

He had had a call the night before to see old Mrs. 
Bascom, and while there had been informed by her son 
of the plan to put McLain forward as a candidate. 
Mr. Bascom had solicited his offices of persuasion, and 


340 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


in accordance with a promise the doctor had stopped 
at McLain’s for a talk with him before church time. 
He was met with the brief announcement from Mrs. 
Debo that Mr. McLain had gone away. 

“ Where?” 

To New York.” 

It is due Mrs. Debo’s character for truth telling to 
explain that this was said in perfectly good faith. 
Before he went away McLain had given her a New 
York address (Judge Haliday’s, of course) and told her 
to write him there if anything was needed. 

“ Would you rather I wouldn’t say anything about 
your going to New York? ” she had asked. 

“ No,” he said, indifferently, though his heart had 
given a sudden bound, “ I don’t care what you say.” 

She was availing herself now of this permission. 

To New York! When did he go? 

Yesterday. 

When would he be back? 

He had not said. 

After a moment of waiting Dr. Llewellyn realized 
that Drusilla was at the end of her communication, and 
he had gone over to the church hoping to see somebody 
that knew more. 

The pulpit platform of the Tinkling Spring Church 
had been enlarged to accommodate the organ and the 
choir at one side. The place of the tenor was vacant. 
Dr. Llewellyn watched the faces of the minister and 
his daughter to get the clue. He knew of the approach- 
ing marriage. Was this some lovers’ quarrel? . . . 
It occurred to him that Dr. Dabney was looking old 
and haggard. 

“ He’s breaking,” he said to himself with a pang. “ I 
never noticed it so plainly before.” The thought forced 
itself upon him still more insistently when the first hymn 
was read. It was David’s penitential psalm. 

“Show pity, Lord! O, Lord, forgive.” 


THEY ALSO SERVE 


341 


The old minister’s trembling voice rose in an intensity 
of supplication that made the girl in the choir grow 
white with fear. Surely everybody would know who 
was the object of that beseeching plea! 

The organ wailed out the minor strains of that old 
tune that nobody ever forgets, and the choir stood up, 
Jean with the rest. Strength came to her as she sang, 
for with the first word she felt that it was his prayer 
and she was voicing it for him. All thought of self, 
or her listeners was gone. Again, as last night, it was 
he, and she, and God. 

Dr. Llewellyn drew a long breath when she stopped 
— his eyes had been on her alone. “ I don’t know ! . . . 
I don’t know ! ” he acknowledged to himself, — he who 
was so good at diagnosis, I don’t know ! ” 

That sermon was long remembered in Tinkling Spring. 
It so evidently referred to Zeb Horn ; and Zeb 
Horn had lain on their consciences for a year. The 
old minister’s pleading had been for merciful judg- 
ment. 

After the very beginning the girl in the choir had 
not followed the sermon. She was following, instead, 
the course of the man she loved. . . . Where was 
he now ? Speeding across the prairies that stretched out 
interminably like his desolate life? . . . Was he look- 
ing off at the mountains and thinking of them as one 
more barrier between him and her? . . . Had his 
courage kept up, or had it ebbed away as had hers this 
morning? If only she could put her hand in his and 
strengthen him! But alone! . . . What a journey 
that was to take alone! . . . Was he thinking about 
her too? Was he wondering as he had wondered last 
night how she could bear it to stand before them all 
and sing? A ghost of a smile flitted over her face then 
to think how little she had thought of them. It was 
of him she was thinking — not of them. Last night she 
had written him a long letter so that he might find 


342 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


one waiting for him. Surely he would need it then if 
ever. 

The last hymn was one not much used in Tinkling 
Spring and it had been decided at choir practice that 
Jean should sing it alone. “ I think that would reach 
me in my grave ! ” McLain had told her as she finished. 

It was with these words beating upon her heart that 
Jean rose to sing. . . . Could she make it reach him 
in his despair? 

There’s a wideness in God's mercy 
Like the wideness of the sea; 

There’s a kindness in His justice 
Which is more than liberty." 

She sang it through, and with every verse the cry of 
her soul was the same : Could she make him hear ? . . 
Could she make him know ? 

With the last verse her face was transfigured. 

“ For the love of God is broader 
Than the measure of man’s mind; 

And the heart of the Eternal 
Is most wonderfully kind.” 

Dr. Llewellyn drew a tense breath as she sat down. 
“ There's something wrong! " he said to himself. “ She 
sings like a seraph ; but there’s a human heart-break back 
of it! . . . Where is McLain? '' 

On the way home the congregation discussed the 
sermon and other things — principally other things. 
McLain’s absence was not remarkable. It affected noth- 
ing but the anthem. But 

“Conscience doth make cowards of us all,” 

and so, it may be said, does a secret. It had seemed 
to Jean’s excited fears that his not being there would 
appear to all a fact of sinister significance, but nobody 
noticed it, nobody commented upon it, except the organ- 
ist and the choir. 


THEY ALSO SERVE 


343 


This is not entirely true. There was one exception. 
John Bascom had taken the mail from his box on the 
way to church, and seeing a letter from his prospective 
candidate could not resist a look at it. What he read 
kept him outside with Colonel Judd until Lizzie, his 
wife, began to grow uneasy about him. Neither he nor 
the Colonel heard much of that sermon, fine as it was. 
The one was thinking of the election; the other of the 
missing candidate. It gave the lonely old man a pang 
to think that McLain should have gone thus without a 
word of farewell. 

“ It surely can’t be true "that Jean Dabney is going 
to be married next week,” said Mrs. Cartwright to her 
daughter as they drove home from church that day. 
“ She wouldn’t come to church the very last Sunday and 
stand up there and sing a solo, would she ? ” 

^^Why not?” 

Why, because it wouldn’t seem hardly decent — that’s 
why. In my day,” which with Mrs. Cartwright, as with 
many other good persons, was always a much better day 
than the present, a girl was never seen in public for 
three weeks before her wedding. It wouldn’t have been 
considered proper, or delicate. I didn’t go out of the 
house for a month, and nothing would have induced me 
to go to church.” 

“ But why not ? ” again asked her daughter. 

Oh, because ! ” Mrs. Cartwright answered with 
finality, justly impatient at the necessity of explaining 
this beautiful and delicate custom to her own off- 
spring. 

At this moment John Bascom’s buggy drove up beside 
the Cartwright surrey. After an exchange of greet- 
ings Mr. Bascom remarked, holding up a letter, Well, 
we’ve got our answer.” 

He accepts, of course?” 

** No, sir. He declines.” 


344 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


“Declines? You don’t say so! What reason does 
he give?” 

“ He’s left the country.” 

Mr. Cartwright put the reins into his daughter’s hands. 
“ Mrs. Bascom, would you mind riding in here with my 
wife? I’ve got to talk to John.” 

This change effected, the three ladies settled down 
to an earnest discussion of the matrimonial question, 
which was to them more vital than politics. 

“You say he’s gone?” asked Mrs. Cartwright, in- 
credulously. “ For good ? ” 

“ I don’t know. The letter said it was indefinite 
when he would return, but probably not before elec- 
tion.” 

“ And election four or five months off ! What do 
you suppose takes him off at this time ? ” 

“ The letter said, ' circumstances that he could not 
control.’ That’s all I know.” 

“ It’s a break-up between him and Jean, of course,” 
said Mattie Cartwright, with the conviction of eighteen 
— an age in which romance dominates everything. “ It 
couldn’t be anything else I ” 

“You haven’t heard anything more about it?” 
Lizzie Bascom was known as a prudent woman, and 
Mrs. Cartwright was fearful that she was holding some- 
thing back. 

“ Well,” admitted Mrs. Bascom, “ I did hear Miss 
Lavinia say something. I was asking about Mr. McLain, 
not thinking there was anything wrong and she said he 
had gone away and that Dr. Dabney had told her that 
something had come between him and Jean, it might 
be only temporary, she said, but she’d better not say 
anything to Jean about it.” 

“ I knew it I ” said Mattie, triumphantly. 

“ Anyway, I had my suspicions that something was 
wrong,” — Mrs. Cartwright wished to have her own 
modicum of satisfaction — “when I saw Jean up there 


THEY ALSO SERVE 


345 


singing. I knew it must have been postponed — or some- 
thing — a girl raised as she has been ! 

When Mr. Cartwright was ready to return to his 
family the case had been pretty thoroughly threshed 
over, and the result was communicated to him. He 
listened impatiently. 

“ That man had good prospects — fine prospects ! 
Think of letting a fool thing like a quarrel with a girl 
blast them ! ” 

A fool thing ? Why, father! 

“Yes, a fool thing! — a It was evident that if 

Mr. Cartwright hadn’t been a church member he might 
have gone to greater lengths than this. “ Now, what’s 
going to keep Jeff Trailes from getting the nomination! ” 

It did not take long for the story to get around. Mrs. 
Cartwright took a day off, and her daughter Mattie 
assisted her. Mrs. Debo, who was the only person that 
seemed to know of McLain’s destination, gave that in- 
formation freely, but drew the line there. 

“ What was the trouble ? ” she was asked many times. 

. “ I don’t know,” she always truthfully said. 

“ Well, ain’t you got any opinions ? ” demanded Mrs. 
Ham, who had come up to get the news for the Creek. 

“ I ain’t paid to hold opinions. . . . Besides, there’s 
enough of ’em floatin’ round now. ... Yes, they 
taken Jean’s mahogany things back, ef you must know.” 

That settled it. 

“He’s jilted her!” was the general verdict; and 
Jean, hearing this rumour through Miss Lavinia’s dis- 
tressed report, smiled, and was thankful. 

“ I never believed he would marry her, anyway,” said 
one of the post-wise ones, — “ a country girl like her. . . . 
Why, they tell me that man’s been to Europe ! ” 


XXVIII 


THE STEADY PULL 


HE abrupt departure of Archer McLain was a 



nine days’ wonder. On the tenth, a scandal prov- 


identially intervened; and a scandal in Tinkling 
Spring was so rare an occurrence that for a time the 
other excitement was overshadowed. When they re- 
turned to it the first burning thirst was past. A wise 
man was that Oriental king who had engraved in his 
signet ring : '' Even this shall pass away.” 

The McLain case came to be accepted as one of the 
mysteries that might never be explained. Still, there 
were many conjectures. Men like Mr. Cartwright and 
Major Davidson said it was a case of “ wanderlust.” 
McLain had been a traveller, and when that poison got 
to working in the blood the longing was sure to return 
sooner or later. They warned the young against it, 
which was a work of supererogation, for the youth of 
Tinkling Spring were just about as likely to be struck 
by “ wanderlust ” as by lightning out of a clear sky. 

Others attributed it to the young man’s waning interest 
in his farming, and told of the latent fears they had 
always had about it. A man had to be born and bred 
to it to make a real farmer. But it was a pity ! 

Into the discussion Dr. Llewellyn injected his theory 
of the injured brain, which he did not at all believe, 
but advanced to supply a vent for surcharged imaginings. 

The general belief, particularly among the younger 
portion of the community, was that it was a lovers’ 
quarrel. The truth nobody suspected. 

At The Manse Jean had straightened her muscles for 
the bearing of her load. To meet Miss Lavinia’s pity- 


346 


THE STEADY PULL 


347 


ing eyes each morning and have nothing to tell her; 
to know that wherever she went tongues were hushed 
upon her appearance and unloosed with her exit; to set 
the mahogany pieces back in their old places; to fold 
away the dainty lingerie until every drawer and closet 
seemed a tomb, — this was all hard. But as the days 
went by they brought to her a heavier burden than this, 
even. 

The one thing upon which she rested most at first 
was her father’s sympathy. In the few days following 
McLain’s departure they had talked freely about him. 
It was her one relief to slip off to the study and with 
his arm around her to talk to him of her lover. But 
after a time, without apparent reason, the subject seemed 
exhausted between them. It was as it often is with a 
man losing by death the one nearest to him. In his 
first grief the name of the absent one is upon his lips 
as of old, and the heart feels the relief of this overflow ; 
but after a while it somehow seems strange and un- 
seemly to speak that name in the everyday tone; it 
becomes almost an offence to hear it called suddenly by 
another; a profanation if it be spoken with a smile, 
even though the sweet presence may be one that all are 
accustomed to think of with smiles. 

So it came to be in time between these two. An in- 
explicable something had drifted between Jean and her 
father. She could not talk to him now about Archer — 
try as she would — with the old freedom. A deadly ret- 
icence fell upon her and upon him. They strove against 
it, but neither knew how to overcome it. An atmosphere, 
real or imagined, cannot be reasoned away. Her lover’s 
name, spoken between them, sounded strange in her 
ears. Jean tried to analyze it. What was this barrier 
between them? How could she break it down? Her 
father was always tender, always kind — why could she 
not go to him and talk freely as she had done at first? 

To the bewildered pain of it all succeeded a dim 


348 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ’’ 


comprehension that gradually cleared into certainty. 
They were looking at Archer and his release from differ- 
ent viewpoints, — she with hopeful expectancy and the 
love that “ covereth all sins ; he with unspoken dread 
of what the return would bring. 

It was hardly to be expected that he would look at 
this through her eyes. Love blinded her, he told him- 
self sadly, to what was before her. She was too young 
to know. His heart pleaded for the boy; and yet his 
knowledge of life and what it had in store for her as 
Archer’s wife made him long to draw her back from 
the irrevocable decision. He could not doubt what that 
decision would be. In fact, he realized, though he would 
not admit it, that the choice was already made. She was 
like her mother in her quiet determination. He thought 
much in those days of the young girl who had braved 
opposition — for him. . . . Perhaps if she had been 
here her woman’s intuition might have warned her be- 
fore it was too late. 

It may perhaps be forgiven Dr. Dabney if he shrank 
a little from his daughter’s marriage to Archer McLain, 
however full his sore heart was of pity for him. His 
was an unsullied name, and if this union were con- 
summated Jean’s children would be the sons and daugh- 
ters of a felon. His hair whitened and his form bent 
under the weight of that thought. Yet never a word of 
censure passed his lips. 

Jean recognized at last dimly the struggle that was 
going on within him, but while her heart ached for him 
she could do nothing to help. 

I love Archer,” she told herself steadily, “ and I 
shall not give him up. Father ought not to expect or 
wish me to do it. My mother gave up everything for 
him.” 

One night they sat at prayers, and Dr. Dabney, who 
read the New Testament in course, had opened to the 
sixth chapter of the Epistle to the Galatians. 


THE STEADY PULL 


349 


“ Brethren,” he read, if a man be overtaken in a 
fault, ye which are spiritual, restore such an one in the 
spirit of meekness; considering thyself, lest thou also 
be tempted.” 

Father,” interrupted Jean, exercising the privilege 
of the house, “what does the word restore mean there? 
Is it the same as forgive ? ” 

“ No,” replied her father, unwarily, “ I should say it 
meant more than forgive, though it would include for- 
giveness. To restore would be — to set in his place.” 

“ I wondered if it could mean that.” 

Dr. Dabney adjusted his glasses and looked at the 
verse again. Then with his index finger on the mar- 
ginal reference he turned to the Epistle to the Romans 
and back to his verse; to the Hebrews and back again; 
to James and back ; studying the connection between 
them with his finger still on another reference, oblivious 
to the present, and looking for more light. 

Miss Lavinia glanced at Jean with a look -that said: 
“ Did you ever see such a man ! ” and took up her 
crocheting, which had been laid aside for prayers. The 
silence was unbroken, save for the turning of a page. 

The close study of marginal references is to the Bible 
student a fascinating occupation, and it leads one into 
highways and byways. Paul takes him to Peter and 
Peter sends him back to Paul. To-night this chase had 
become an absorbing one. Uncle Ephraim nodded in 
the corner; Aunt Phyllis frankly slumbered and slept; 
but the search went on, while she who was the cause 
of it sat by, an interested observer. 

A snore from Aunt Phyllis recalled Dr. Dabney to the 
present. He gave a startled glance around him and 
closed the Bible. 

“ Let us pray,” he said, apparently under the impres- 
sion that he had read a full chapter. 

He made an opportunity the next day to ask Jean if 
she had heard lately from Archer, and to send a kindly 


350 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


message to him, which made the girl's heart swell almost 
to bursting. 

On his westward way letters had come to her every 
day from McLain, but afterwards it was only at stated 
intervals that she could hope to hear. When they came 
she took them down to the ravine, which somehow 
brought him nearer to her, and read them there where 
no eye could see. They were always taken out again 
in the security of her own locked room when all the 
house was asleep. She kept them under lock and key 
by day and cried over them by night. But the rising of 
the sun always found her with her morning face " on. 
If there were tears over the letters she received there 
were none in the ones she sent back. Nothing but hope 
and courage and good cheer — and love — did they breathe. 

McLain's replies were commonplace and seldom 
lengthy. He told himself that he would do nothing to 
make her feel that she was bound. He could not deny 
himself the correspondence, but his letters at least should 
be but friendly ones. Then if she tired of it, — if she 
found the situation too great a strain upon even a love 
like hers, — why, she knew (because he had told her so) 
that she could end it all at any time. Having settled his 
part in this cold, impersonal way, the very soul in him 
was kept alive by the love her letters spoke. He searched 
each one and weighed it in jealous scales to see if he 
could detect a change. 

There was none. She guessed how he would feel and 
each time she wrote from her heart. Sometimes she felt 
it to be almost cruel that he did not do the same. 

It had been planned that her letters should be sent 
under cover to Calvin Judd. But Mr. Judd was not 
always in the city, and besides, too many letters to one 
known in the neighbourhood might create suspicion. 

“ Jean," said her father one day, “ are you sending 
your letters to Archer through Calvin Judd?" 


THE STEADY PULL 


351 


^‘Yes, father/^ 

I hear the postman on this route says the reconcilia- 
tion between Colonel Judd and his son must be com- 
plete, judging from the number of letters the Colonel 
sends him. ... It might be well to be cautious.” 

Jean’s next letter was sent to Mr. Arthur Pratt, Salt 
Lake City, — a name which meant nothing in Tinkling 
Spring, but was so well known in Salt Lake City that 
no street and number was needed. They were mailed 
from every available place. Everything that could be 
done to turn attention from her correspondent was re- 
sorted to, except the very practical expedient of lessen- 
ing the amount of his mail. That was never contem- 
plated. 

Archer McLain’s only other correspondent in the 
neighbourhood was Mrs. Debo, who wrote infrequent 
letters about the farm and sent them to New York. 
Thence they were forwarded to him. That his house- 
keeper, in whose care the place was left, should know 
of his whereabouts and be in communication with him 
did more to avert suspicion than any other one thing 
could have done. As the answers to her letters were 
dated New York and mailed from the same place she 
had every reason to suppose he was there. 

The summer passed; October was painting its name 
on every hillside and country road; and in the ravine, 
close to the water’s edge, with the brightest tints of all. 
Jean sent leaves of crimson and gold and russet browns 
in her letters, and McLain pinned them to his walls and 
dreamed his dreams of some day walking those shaded 
aisles with her again. One day she wrote, “ This is 
from our chrysanthemum that we set out that day. Do 
you remember?” . . . Did he remember? It seemed 
to him that he had time since he had been back to 
remember everything she had ever said or done or looked 
since he had known her. And how the pronoun thrilled 
him ! It was still “ our ” chrysanthemum. 


352 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


It had been a hard summer for them all. For the 
family at The Manse there had been but one mitigating 
circumstance. Mrs. Alexander was abroad. 

When the approaching marriage of her niece and 
Archer McLain had been communicated to her she had 
written Jean a wrathy letter. ‘‘ Since this marriage is 
in opposition to my well-known wishes'’ (she wrote) 
you will hardly expect me to be present. I have seen 
one member of my family sacrificed to a romantic 
attachment, and I cannot witness a second. I sail on 
the Wilhelm der Grosse June 4th.” 

Praise God from whom all blessings flow ! ” McLain 
had said when this was read to him, and Jean, with 
dimpling cheek and laughing eyes, had rebuked him. 

Undeniably it had been a boon to the family to have 
Aunt Josephine delving into art catalogues instead of 
family affairs this particular summer, as things had 
turned out, — for nothing was too sacred for her touch, 
and no subterfuge availed. 

Jean had said to Archer as they sat together that last 
night before he went away, “ I certainly am glad Aunt 
Josephine is safe in Paris." 

‘‘ ' God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb I ' he had 
replied with a flash of his old-time humour. 

She had written to Aunt Josephine the next day, tell- 
ing her that the marriage had been postponed ; and Mrs. 
Alexander, receiving this letter in Paris, had taken heart 
of grace and said to herself that she would break this 
thing up yet. She wrote a letter to Jean at once, asking 
her to come over by the next available steamer and meet 
her in London. She would defray all expenses, etc., 
etc. 

‘‘Would you like to go, my daughter?" asked Dr. 
Dabney, doubtfully. 

“No, father! No!" Jean had said. 

Nothing more was said about it. To him, as to her. 
Aunt Josephine would be intolerable. 


THE STEADY PULL 


353 


But Aunt Josephine must be faced, intolerable though 
she might be; for her summer tour was over now and 
she was coming up to Tinkling Spring. She would be 
there for Thanksgiving, and would take Jean home with 
her for the winter. 

“ Father,’’ said Jean the day after this letter came, — 
she was on the arm of his chair now and her arms 
around him in the old way, — I can’t meet Aunt Jose- 
phine — ^yet. I don’t dare to risk it. She would worm it 
out of me about Archer. You know how inquisitive she 
is, and how persistent. May I go to Chicago?” 

“Chicago, my child? To whom would you go in 
Chicago ? ” 

Jean held out a letter. “ It is from Mrs. Nellis. You 
know I have corresponded with her from time to time 
ever since the wreck. She wants me to come to 
Chicago.” 

“To visit her?” 

“ Partly, and partly for something more serious. I 
had written to her of my wedding, and then afterwards 
had to write and tell her it had been postponed. Of 
course I could do that with her without giving any 
reason for it. The worst thing about relatives is that 
you must give reasons. Well, she is writing to me now 
to come on there and work with her among the poor. 
You know she does a great deal of that kind of 
thing.” 

“ Didn’t she make some such proposition as this last 
winter ? ” asked Dr. Dabney, after some questions as to 
the nature of the work. “ It seems to me I remember 
something of the kind.” 

“Yes, she did; but I didn’t want to go then.” 

“ As I remember it you rather ridiculed this kind of 
philanthropy, did you not ? ” 

“ Not exactly. I don’t think I ridiculed it, father, 
but I did say that I didn’t believe there was all the sorrow 
in the world that older people say there is. And I wrote 


354 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


to Mrs. Nellis that I didn’t think I was the kind of 
person to work among the poor and wretched.” 

Well? ” he questioned, gently. 

‘‘ I think I’m qualified now,” she said, her chin quiv- 
ering. 

He drew her to him. 

My little girl ! . . . My little Jean ! ” 

Dr. Dabney was easily persuaded. He knew Mrs. 
Nellis for a philanthropic Christian woman whose heart 
never ran away with her head. She was one with whom 
Jean would be safe; and he knew enough of the human 
heart to know that work of this kind just at this time 
would do the girl great good. 

Before Mrs. Alexander’s descent upon the family 
Jean was duly settled in her new occupation. And now 
the letters might be posted in any letter box, safe from 
curious neighbourhood eyes. 


XXIX 


^^ NO . 1066” 

I N the Utah prison the leaden hours crept on. Day 
followed night, and to toil succeeded rest. This was 
the variation that life there afforded for six days out 
of seven. Then came the beneficent Creator’s day of 
rest — and one more week was checked off. But the 
next was like unto it. 

To rise at the peremptory clang of a gong that spared 
none — this was the life — to march, to eat, to work; — to 
march, to eat, to work; — to march, to eat, . . . and 
then — ah! then came 

“ The gentle sleep from Heaven that slid into his soul.” 

Coming back to this machine-like monotony which held 
them all in its grip, — a monotone of existence which 
he had risked life and limb to escape, — rising up at the 
behest of another, — sitting down to coarse food at which 
his appetite revolted, with uncouth men who bolted it 
in noisy silence, and with sickening suspirations, — ^held 
down to labour which profited him nothing and led him 
no whither, like the steps of the horse in the treadmill, 
— and when it was over for one more day locked in a 
cell where, as in Bonnivard’s, was 

“ But silence, and a stirless breath, ” 

McLain wondered sometimes why he had done it. 

True, it had secured freedom for Mulnix. The con- 
vict’s pardon was easily obtained, and he had gone forth 
without so much as a word for the man whose sacrifice 
had made it possible. McLain only smiled when he 
355 


356 THE MASTER OF ‘‘ THE OAKS ” 


heard of it. He had not done it for thanks, he told 
himself. . . . Well, for what had he done it? He 
had ruined his own life, certainly, and, what was far 
worse, he had ruined Jean’s. Life might be made en- 
durable for her, might after a while come to have a 
certain sober satisfaction and middle-aged content, but 
it could never be the joyous thing it had been. 

Why had he done it? He pondered this question dis- 
passionately in his hours of work and his hours of rest, 
when locked in his cell he was free to read or write 
or engage himself as he chose until the lights went out 
and to think unrestrictedly thereafter. 

The answer to it did not come except as it forced 
itself upon him in the deepening conviction that he could 
not have done otherwise. He was conscious that his 
attitude toward this life was different from what it had 
been when he was here before. Then, his whole being 
was in rebellion, — his mental position that of one who 
beats at the bars he cannot break. He felt so keenly 
at that time, so bitterly and intensely, the injustice of 
his punishment and the ignominy of his disgrace. Now 
— while these feelings were undiminished — his years of 
absence from the prison and the saner way of looking 
at things he had somehow gained enabled him to adjust 
himself to it; and with adjustment always comes partial 
relief. He had broken the law, in letter if not in spirit, 
and the punishment, which he believed still to be unjust, 
had at least been lawfully meted out to him. It re- 
mained for him, he perceived, to bear it as a man should, 
— not sullenly, nor morosely, but courageously. 

Especially was this true since he had voluntarily re- 
turned to it. Whatever was the compelling force that 
had brought him back, certainly there was no outside 
compulsion. Had he so chosen he might at this very 
moment when he lay gasping for breath in a sweltering 
cell, be ploughing the ocean with danger left behind him 
and the salt sea air pouring in upon him from the port- 


“NO. 1066” 357 

hole. Ah-h ! How blessed that would be ! . . . Why 
hadn’t he chosen that? 

He never forced himself to a categorical answer to 
this question. Had he done so, it would have been 
something like this: he had come back as the lesser of 
two evils — the greater being freedom purchased at the 
price of his soul’s integrity. 

Then his thoughts would go back inevitably to what 
might have been. Had he resisted this unseen power 
that brought him here — whatever it was — he might be 
at this moment lying in the blue and gold chamber and 
she slumbering beside him, not knowing and never to 
know that he was aught but what she thought him. He 
could have kept it from her forever. It would not have 
been such a difficult thing! . . . That room formed 
itself in a mental picture before his eyes staring into 
the blackness about him. . . . How sweet and pure 
it was ! — just like herself ! . . . And with its four big 
windows, how cool ! — even in a breathless night like this 1 
If only he could get one full breath of the air that blew 
through his oak trees ! One whiff from the sweet honey- 
suckle! . . . Why did people think so little of these 
things when they had them to enjoy? he wondered. He 
had never thought much about air and sweet odours — he 
had taken them as a matter of course, like everybody 
else. But now — Bah ! how foul the air was ! It pressed 
upon him like a hand that shut off his breath ! 

He fell to planning a cell-house that should have 
sunlight and ventilation. Why shouldn’t even a prison 
have these two things? They were God’s gift to the 
world — His agents for preventing disease and crime. 
Why should they be withheld from even the wretched 
and depraved ? Was it as retaliation for the crimes they 
had committed? Was a State still retaliatory? If so, 
why had it abandoned other forms of torture ? 

No, it was not that the State meant to be cruel. It 


368 THE MASTER OF ‘‘ THE OAKS ” 


was because it was cheaper to build prisons on this plan. 
They must be constructed so as to accommodate the 
great numbers being pressed into them. . . . But why, 
he asked himself whimsically, had it not occurred to 
them to try cutting off the supply? He had thought 
and read much on this subject in the years that inter- 
vened since he was here before. He knew now how 
criminals were being manufactured in antiquated jails 
faster than they could be cared for in up-to-date 
prisons. ... Yes, if the supply could be cut off, or 
the ranks thinned out by discharging those in whom pun- 
ishment had done its work (provided it really was not 
meant to be retaliatory) — why, then they would be able 
to build prisons so that all the poor devils could get a 
breath of air around ! . . . Whew-w ! it was hot ! . . . 
was evil to be sweated out of their souls as rheumatism 
was sweated out of their bodies? 

Then upon his tossings and gaspings and feverish 
imaginings sleep would descend before he had thought 
it out. 

It was not alone the matter of mental adjustment that 
made McLain’s position easier than before. The atten- 
tion of the prison authorities was naturally drawn to him 
by his voluntary return to custody, and while he made 
no bid for sympathy, sympathy of a practical kind was 
forthcoming. He was shown as much consideration as 
the rules of the prison and the maintenance of discipline 
would permit. When the librarian was discharged, 
McLain was put in his place. He set himself to re- 
cataloguing and renovating the books, and devising a 
scheme by which the magazines, many of them private 
property, were exchanged and circulated through the 
medium of the library. He brought to his work an in- 
telligence and a knowledge of books that made him a 
valuable assistant, and the same constructive force that 
had been employed in remaking his farm was displayed 
in remodelling the prison book supply. 


“NO. 1066” 


359 


How long he was to be here he did not yet know. 
His original sentence would terminate the following 
March, but how much would be added for his escape 
was indeterminate. McLain found an indeterminate 
sentence a nerve-racking thing. But — it could not be 
forever, and he set himself to do his best and make it 
as short as possible. In the meantime, what his hands 
found to do he would do — to pass away time, if nothing 
more. 

They found employment first in the night school, where 
from supper time till half-past eight he became an in- 
structor. He might have been reading; he wondered 
sometimes why he wasn’t. Perhaps it was because he 
remembered Dr. Dabney’s telling him that he had a gift 
for imparting to others what he knew, and Dr. Llewellyn’s 
adding that he had the rarer power of stimulating within 
them a desire to know. . . . Well, he told himself 
impatiently, if he had a gift, in Heaven’s name let him 
use it when opportunity came ! 

Jean’s letter he always wrote on Sunday after the 
service in the chapel. He always went to this, whether 
the sermon was by Jew, Gentile, or Latter Day Saint, 
because it was something to break the tedious monotony 
of the week. He liked to be able to give Jean the text, 
for he knew it would please her. Then it was something 
to write about. It seems strange that there should ever 
be a lack of subjects between them, but McLain, who 
penned burning epistles to her in which he poured out 
his heart (and never sent), adhered to his determination 
to write only friendly letters to the girl. It was a cruel 
test of her love, but if it should hold out, it would be 

worth the test. If it shouldn’t hold out He never 

got any farther in it than that. 

Down in the ravine Jean cried over his letters because 
they were cold and impassionate, and never knew of 
those he wrote and did not send. Is it to be wondered 
at that her own grew more reserved as time went by? 


360 THE MASTER OF ‘‘ THE OAKS ” 


It is hard for the love-making to be all on one side — 
especially on the girl’s. 

One day in the fall — it was a month after the chrysan- 
themum “ from our garden ” came — a leaf fell from her 
letter as he opened it. It was pinned to a slip of paper 
on which was written, “ From one of your own oaks.” 

He sat looking at it a long time before he read the 
letter. . . . “ From your oak.” . . . She had said 

our chrysanthemum.” But when he read the letter 
there was nothing he could criticise. 

He did not write often to Mrs. Debo or Judge Haliday, 
for every letter to them was one taken from Jean, and 
he felt a consuming desire to keep in close touch with her 
in spite of the formality of his letters. He thought of 
his protestations to her the day they parted that he would 
not accept her sacrifice, and knew it was false. . . . 
If Jean should fail him, where would he turn? . . . 
And there was no way to hold her save by keeping 
himself before her, pitiable object though he were! That 
week in spite of his resolution a little more of his heart 
got into his letter, though he had not meant to let it. 
He was holding on desperately to his determination to 
leave her uninfluenced by any thought of a future with 
him. But it was hard to do it, for in one of Mrs. 
Debo’s infrequent letters had been this postscript: 

WeVe got a doctor since you left — Dr. Gresham — 
the one you seen in the choir that day. He sings there 
regular now.” 

So Gresham was there! Gresham would have the 
opportunities that once were his! . . . Could that 
have anything to do with her change of pronouns? He 
hunted up the chrysanthemum letter. . . . Why should 
she have said our in one letter and your in the other? 

She wrote to him about her plans for going to Chicago, 
and he entirely approved — for obvious reasons. When 
she was settled there she wrote to him not of her work. 


“NO. 1066” 


361 


which was of rather a sorrowful kind and not inspiriting 
to hear about — but of the things she was seeing and 
the people she met. Dr. and Mrs. Nellis had a lovely 
home and such charming friends. They were without 
children and devoted much of their time to the poor. 
Mrs. Nellis had a younger brother, Dr. Bayne, who 
made his home with her. He was very intelligent, very 
much interested in sociological studies, and was of great 
assistance to them in their work. (“Another doctor!^’ 
thought McLain. “ My cup certainly runneth over with 
the medical fraternity!”) Whenever her work took 
her into objectionable parts of the city, as it did some- 
times, he always insisted upon going with her as a pro- 
tector; so he (McLain) might feel perfectly easy about 
her. Indeed, he must not think of her as being in the 
poor districts all the time. As a matter of fact, after 
that letter he did not think of her as in the poor dis- 
tricts at all. He thought of her as walking with Bayne, 
singing with Bayne, talking with Bayne — and looking 
to him as her protector. . . . He wished she had 
stayed in Tinkling Spring. 

Through the early winter Jean’s letter still came each 
week with clock-like regularity. Sunday morning he 
received it and Sunday afternoon it was answered. Then 
he counted the hours till another Sunday would roll 
around. While the letters were always bright and 
cheery, he could not shut his eyes, as the months went by, 
to the fact that they were more impersonal, more de- 
tached as it were. Perhaps that might be because she 
was now where they had no common interest. What 
did he care for the brick and mortar of Chicago, or even 
its Pjarks that she wrote about? Yet he thought of the 
pictures she suggested day and night. She had told him 
once that Dr. Bayne had a motor car, and he had had 
visions ever since of the two speeding along the North 
Shore Drive, or out in Jackson Park. Why did she 
ever write him that ? he thought, irritably. 


362 THE MASTER OF « THE OAKS ” 


One Sunday in December his letter failed, and his 
courage with it. It came later in the week, but there 
was something strangely unsatisfactory about it, some- 
thing forced about the light way in which she wrote, as 
if she were compelling herself to pen words she did not 
feel. McLain felt a fear gnawing at his heart that he 
would not formulate. 

The next Sunday again there was none. He could 
not expect one then, he told himself, since the last had 
not come until Thursday. They were thrown off their 
regular schedule and she was trying to get back to it. 
Sure enough, on the Sunday following the letter came, 
and in the quiet of his cell he opened it. It was very 
short, saying only that she wrote to-night so that she 
would feel sure of his hearing Sunday as usual. (That 
was it, he told himself. He had said that was what it 
was. She only wanted to get back upon the old sched- 
ule.) He felt a ridiculous sense of relief. . . . She 
had been — what was that word? sick? — no, busy? — yes, 
that was it. It was indistinct as if it had been erased 
and rewritten. The whole letter was unlike her. It 
was written with pencil, even to the address — a thing 
he had never known her to do. He shook his head, 
not knowing that he did so, as he folded it up. . . . 
She would be busy, of course. 

He sat with his eyes on the floor for a long, long time 
after reading that letter. . . . He ought to give up 
all thought of it! If he were a man he would write to 
her and break it off. 

But he did not do it. 

That was the last letter he had from her, and that 
was the third of January. 

During the next two months McLain suffered the tor- 
ments of the lost. He could not doubt what her silence 
meant, and he could not blame her. She had done only 
what he had told her she was at liberty to do at any 
time — ^what she ought to do in justice to herself. She 


^‘NO. 1066” 


363 


had simply taken him at his word. And he, poor be- 
sotted fool that he was, had made no effort to keep her ! 
How could he expect a woman to keep her troth with 
a man who did not even tell her of his love? Why had 
he not sent her such letters as he had written and put 
away? They would have told her in words she could 
not have misunderstood how his heart, his life, were 
bound up in her! But the cold, formal things he had 
sent her in return for hers with their full measure of 
love, pressed down and running over 1 . . . Oh, fool 1 
fool — how could he expect to hold her with such clammy 
fingers as that! 

When his self-abasement and scorn had spent them- 
selves he determined that he would not give it up with- 
out a struggle. He would write to her again — would 
tell her all he had wanted to tell her through these long 
months — and see if he could not woo her back to him 
after all. He wrote the letter and sent it to Chicago. 
Then he shut his teeth and waited. 

There was no answer. 

He wrote again, putting in the left hand corner : ** If 
not called for in five days return to Box — , Salt Lake.” 

It came back. 

He tore it up and wrote another — an impassioned 
appeal in which his pride was thrown to the winds. 
Would' she not at least write and tell him if all was over ? 
This he directed to Tinkling Spring, with the instruction 

Please forward.” He never heard from it. Then he 
settled himself to dull despair. 

It was the first week in March that he was called 
one day to the warden^s office. He knew that Calvin 
Judd was interesting himself in trying to secure a par- 
don for him, or rather a remission of the penalty for 
his escape. Without that added penalty his term would 
be out in seven days. He imagined it was about this 
that he was to be interviewed. But freedom to him 


S64 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


now was not what it would have been three months ago ! 

As he expected, Mr. Judd was in the office in consulta- 
tion with the warden. He looked up and nodded. 

Hello, McLain!” 

** How are you, Judd?” 

“ We’ll be ready for you in a minute.” Mr. Judd 
held up a paper significantly ; but McLain made no sign. 
He stood with his back to them looking out of the office 
window. The warden turned to the deputy. 

Give him that package that came this morning. 
We’ll be through in a minute.” 

The deputy went to the receptacle for such things and 
took out a small box whose wrapping, loosely tied up 
after having been opened, bore the address of Mr. John 
Branham. The postmark was Tinkling Spring, and it 
was addressed in Jean’s writing. 

McLain opened it with fiercely pounding heart. In- 
side, some crumpled paper steadied another and smaller 
box. It was a ring case of red morocco. 

Then the soul of Archer McLain died within him ! 

The deputy who had given him the box came back 
to him. 

It ain’t all of us gets rings ! ” he said, with a clumsy 
attempt to be facetious. Then, receiving no answer and 
looking into McLain’s face, “ Say ! are you sick ? . . . 
Set down, man ! ” 

McLain obeyed mechanically and the deputy got him 
a glass of water, saying to the warden, who looked up 
enquiringly : 

Sick. Some of these fellows will drop in their tracks 
before they’ll own up.” 

“ Leave him alone a little while and he’ll get over it. 
Now, as I was saying, Mr. Judd ” 

Their voices receded from McLain’s consciousness. 
The sound of many waters was in his ears. . . . And 
this was what it meant! This was the end. . . . 


“NO. 1066” 


365 


Well! . . . There was a long pause then, even in his 
thinking. . . . He had told her to do it! The porch 
at The Manse swam before his eyes with themselves on 
the steps — his arm holding her tight — her head on his 
shoulder — and she promising to be true! . . . She 
had tried to be — she had tried faithfully . . . but poor 
little girl! it was too much for her! ... Yes, he had 
told her to do it. He hadn’t one word to say. He had 
told her when the time came that she wanted to be free 
she had only to send him this ring — without a word — 
and he would understand. . . . Well — he did! . . . 
And so far as she was concerned, it was all right. As 
for himself — a hand gripped his throat; his lips were 
dry. . . . Good God! — a pardon — and nothing to go 
back to! 

“ What’s the matter with that man ? ” said the warden 
in an undertone. 

I’ll revive him,” said Mr. Judd, by your permis- 
sion.” 

He stepped up to him. 

The pardon is here, McLain. I ought to have told 
you at once.” 

McLain turned a dazed face toward him. 

“The pardon? — Yes. I certainly am obliged to you, 
Judd. You — you’ve been more than kind ” 

“ Cut it out ! ” said Mr. Judd, curtly. Then, drawing 
a chair close to him, “ What’s the matter, boy ? ” 

McLain opened his hand upon the ring box — looked 
at it — and then at Calvin Judd. He had few secrets 
from the ex-sheriff. The man had been his confidant of 
necessity. 

“ This is the end, Judd.” 

^^IVhatr^' 

“ She was to send it back to me — ^when she got tired,” 
he said in a lifeless voice. 

A comprehension of his meaning broke upon Calvin 
Judd. 


366 THE MASTER OF ‘‘ THE OAKS ” 


By George ! . . . that’s tough ! ” 

There was silence between them then, for no words 
seemed pertinent. Those that rose to the ex-sheriff’s 
lips were : '' That’s the way women are ! ” But he for- 
bore. 

The deputy sauntered up. The receiving of a ring 
by a young man must be an occasion of rejoicing and 
he wished to have part. 

“ Say ! what do them letters mean, if I ain’t too in- 
quisitive? ” 

McLain looked blank. 

In the ring, you know. Why, you haven’t opened it 
yet ! ” 

McLain touched the pearl spring and the cover flew 
up. Imbedded in the white satin cushion was a man’s 
seal ring, with an amethyst deeply inset. Inside was the 
date Dec. 25 , the year, and a single word. 

‘‘‘MIZPEH,’” he read. ^ Mizpeh! ’ Then he 
lifted an illumined face to the deputy. '' It means — 
‘ The Lord watch between me and thee, when we are 
absent one from another.’ ” 

“ Oh,” said the deputy, I thought it was some sort 
of pass word, maybe.” 

Calvin Judd stared. Then he caught McLain’s hand 
and wrung it until the deputy thought he was losing his 
mind. 

'‘Bully for Jean!” he cried. “Bully for Jean! 
There’s one woman in the world that sticks, anyway ! ” 

And a man’s tears, of which they did not need to be 
ashamed, ran down the cheeks of both. 

As McLain was leaving the office he was handed a 
letter, which he read in the library. It ran: 

“ Mr. John Branham, Salt Lake City, Utah. 

“ Deer sir: — I take my pen in hand to in foam you that 
Miss Jean Dabney has about a even chanst now fur life, 
and I hope these few lines will find you enjoyin’ the 


«N0. 1066” 


367 


same blessing. She has been down for about two 
months with typhoid, which you know ef you know 
anything about fevers, that it ain’t no joak to have 
typhoid. Fur myself I’d ruther have smallpox — ^pits 
and all. 

“ Dr. Dabney, which he is her father, has had it 
too, — caught it from her. I and Miss Lavinia and 
little Ephrum the nigger has had our hands full, I can 
tell you. Dr. Dabney is still on soft feed, though he is 
settin’ up, but Jean ain’t, nor won’t fur one while. 

“ They don’t think she taken it around here, for things 
is as clean as a biscuit board on this place — cleaner’n 
some, I reckon. She taken a notion to go to Chicago 
slummin’. I don’t know rightly what that is, but Dr. 
Llewellyn says it’s pokin round in the dregs and stirring 
up germs, and before she could fasten herself onto them 
they fastened theyselves onto her, and got the onder 
holt, and that will be the end of her slummin’ fur a right 
smart while, which I fur one am glad of it, fur I think 
it is a woman’s spear to stir up cake and strife and 
things she is accustomed to at home, instead of germs in 
foreign cities. 

I sent you a little box yestiddy that she says she 
done up fur you before she taken sick. And she says 
tell you she is just the same. But it ain’t so! She’s 
better — but she’s powerful weak. 

“ So no more at preasant from your obediant servent, 

“ Drusilla Debo. 

P.S. which I am her nurse.” 

McLain could have wept for joy at this jumble of 
news and characteristic personal opinion. . . . She 
was alive! She was going to live! And she was just 
the same! . . . What a message to come to a man 
in despair! . . . How could he ever have doubted 
her — his true-hearted Jean? 

And in seven days he would be free! 


XXX 


WITHOUT BELLS 

I N the sweet, cool bed-chamber with the ivy-covered 
walls upon which two years before Archer McLain 
had opened his eyes, lay the wraith of a woman. So 
motionless was she as she lay among the snowy pillows, 
so wax-like her face, so transparent the blue-veined lids 
shut over tired eyes that she might well have been 
thought by anybody but the angular woman now re- 
garding her to be clothed for her last sleep. 

It was Jean Dabney. 

The long hair, which Mrs. Debo’s unremitting care 
had saved, was braided in two braids and lay on each 
side of her neck. The nurse had tied bows of blue on 
the ends which fell across a dainty nightgown run 
with ribbons of the same hue. 

“There, now! you look jest as sweet as you useter 
when you was a baby and I got you dressed and laid 
in your little basket with the lace and ruffles on it — 
only when you was a blush rosebud, and now you are a 
white one. But never mind, honey, the pink will come 
after a while. Now, when you’re rested I’ll call the 
doctor up.” 

The tired lids shut out the light again, but they opened 
in a minute. 

“ Mrs. Debo, is anybody here?” 

“Yes, the doctor.” 

“ I thought I heard somebody come last night.” 

“ Maybe you dreamed it,” said Mrs. Debo, menda- 
ciously. It was her part to prepare the stage, not to 
usher in the actors. 


368 


WITHOUT BELLS 


369 


Perhaps so,” with a sigh. I dream so much.” 

They had had a hard fight for her since that day last 
January when the message came that she was stricken 
with the fever. Mrs. Nellis at the long distance phone 
gave the dread news and asked for instructions. She 
should advise the hospital. 

It happened that Dr. Llewellyn was at The Manse 
when the message came. He always dropped in as he 
passed now. Dr, Dabney at the telephone turned to 
him for agitated consultation while the wire was held, 
saying brokenly : “ No, no ! I could not see her go to 
a hospital ! I must have her here.” He had the 
country man’s prejudice against the city institution. 

Dr. Llewellyn took the receiver from his shaking 
grasp, and the case into his own hands. 

Hello ! . . . I will be there to-morrow morning 
on the 6:30 train — C. and A. — with a nurse. Have her 
ready to start home by the next train. . . . No, I 
haven’t a time-table. You must find out there. . . . 
Yes. . . . Yes, I see. But he doesn’t feel that 
way. . . . No, this is Dr. Llewellyn. Tell her so, 
please. (Anything else you want to say, doctor?) . . . 
That’s all, thank you. Good-bye.” 

I will go over now for Mrs. Debo,” he had said. 
“ We will start on the night train.” 

They brought her home, these two faithful friends, 
and for rnonths she had lain impassive, scarcely more 
than breathing, dead to the world about her, almost 
slipping over the brink again and again but always 
drawn back — living, in short, the death in life of typhoid. 

Consciousness had not quite failed her when she came. 
She knew them when she was roused, and there was 
evidently something on her mind. She tried to tell them 
but darkness would come before the message was de- 
livered. 

She wants something,” Mrs. Debo told Dr. Llewellyn ; 
“ but I can’t make out what it is. She will look up 


670 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


at me with them great eyes of hern and say, so pitiful, 
' Please send it ! ’ and before I can find out what it is 
the vacant look will come again and I’ll see the curtain’s 
down ! ” 

It is the fever,” he said. “ Delirium is wonderfully 
like insanity.” 

One night just before she sank into that last death-like 
stupor Jean called Mrs. Debo to her in the rational 
tone delirious people use to deceive us. It seemed to 
the nurse that she certainly was conscious this time. 

Is the light burning — over there ? ” 

To humour her Mrs. Debo went to the window. No, 
honey, there ain’t any light.” 

Then he’s dead,” said Jean, quietly. 

The slow fever burned itself out at last, and she woke 
one day as an infant wakes — dimly conscious, but with- 
out strength or volition. When she came to full con- 
sciousness and knew how long she had been lying here 
and that her father too was ill they could hardly under- 
stand her agitation. 

'' He is out of danger,” she was told. 

“ But I must see father,” she pleaded, again and again. 

One day after she had been once more denied, she 
said, imperiously, “ Mrs. Debo, look in my trunk and 
bring me a box that you will find there ” — describ- 
ing it. 

Now, Jean Dabney, I begin to have hopes,” Mrs. 
Debo said. “When anybody speaks that positive they 
ain’t goin’ to die right off ! ” 

“ I have never intended to die,” said Jean. 

She took from the box a small parcel addressed for 
mailing. “ Send this to the office — by Sandy. Have 
him register it.” 

“ I’ll send it by Dr. Llewellyn to-night.” 

“ No— by Sandy.” 

“ She don’t ’pear to be no ways shaky in her own 


WITHOUT BELLS 


371 


mind/’ inwardly commented Mrs. Debo. Good sign ! ” 
Aloud she remarked, “ This was what was botherin’ you, 
I suppose.” 

Jean looked up quickly. Did I talk much?” 

“ Not quite as much as I would have liked. You 
always stopped before you got to the p’int. You had 
this on your mind; but we couldn’t make head or tail 
of what you wanted.” 

Over the girl’s lips passed a flicker of relief. 

The next day she had the letter written. 

When Jean was rested Dr. Llewellyn came in. 

“ How is the lady to-day, Mrs. Debo ? ” 

“ She’s pretty peart this morning.” 

“ Pretty peart, eh ? ” He was acquainted with the 
vernacular and comprehended. He had once known a 
night nurse at the Asylum (before the days of fever 
thermometers) to leave this written report: “I think 
she’s better. Her hide ain’t so hot.” 

He passed a few words with Jean and then said, his 
fingers on her pulse, “You look as if you were dressed 
for company this morning. . . . Would you feel like 
seeing anybody ? ” 

“ Is anybody here ? ” 

“ Yes. Somebody that is very anxious to see you.” 

“ Is it ” 

He sa^ that nothing would be gained now by tem- 
porizing. 

“Yes, it’s McLain. . . . But there! there! — you 
can’t see him if you let your pulse jump up and down 
like this! . . . Give me a little of that wine, Mrs. 
Debo. . . . Pretty weak yet, aren’t you ? ” Then talk- 
ing to give her time to recover, “ You see, he came last 
night, but your father very properly decided not to let 
him see you until morning. That gave him an oppor- 
tunity for a good talk with him himself, I judge, and you 
will have to put up with third or fourth, or somewhere 


372 THE MASTER OF THE OAKS ” 


along there. ... Do you think you are equal to it 
now ? . . . All right, girlie ! ” And he patted her thin 
hand. 

“ McLain ! ” he called from the head of the stairs, 
''you may come now.” 

Jean heard the familiar step on the stairs, through the 
hall, upon the threshold. It was hard to keep her pulse 
even. 

" Mrs. Debo,” the doctor said, " I want to speak to 
you a moment.” 

As McLain passed him he cautioned, " She is very 
weak. Don’t forget it ! ” 

Then the man passed in and she held out her arms 
to him. 

" Jean,” he said softly after a while — he was on his 
knees beside her — " your prodigal has come home.” 

" And I couldn’t run to meet you — as I promised I 
would.” 

" No,” he said, significantly, " but your father did ! ” 

" Did he ? Oh, Archer, did he ? . . . Dear father ! ” 
— and then after a silence in which much was spoken — 
" dear father ! ” 

" I wonder how he happened to come on here just 
at the right time,” said Dr. Llewellyn to Mrs. Debo as 
the two went downstairs together. 

" I wrote for him.” 

"You wrote for him?” 

" Yes. I thought it was time somebody was takin’ 
it in hand, and there ’peared to be nobody ready to do it. 
So three or four days ago I wrote to him in New York 
and told him that in my judgment there wan’t nothin’ 
that would cure her now but seein’ him.” 

" Drusilla,” — impressively, — " you deserve to be canon- 
ized!” 

" I don’t know why ! ” she said, indignantly. " It 
will bring them together. You see if it don’t! Besides, 


WITHOUT BELLS 373 

if I am ever shot for anything it will be for a fool — 
not a coward ! ’’ 

'' It will never be for either, Drusilla. You are all 
right 

Joy doeth good like a medicine, we have good author- 
ity for thinking. From the hour of McLain’s return 
fresh life flowed through the girl’s torpid being. But 
it takes less time to get down into the Valley of the 
Shadow of Death than to come up out of it. It would 
be a long time yet. Dr. Llewellyn told them, before she 
would be well. Then McLain went to Dr. Dabney and 
pleaded that they might be married at once. 

“ I want to nurse her back to life myself,” he said, 
** and I can do it better if she is my wife.” 

Dr. Llewellyn sided with him, as did Miss Lavinia, 
to whom marriage by a sick bed was the most romantic 
thing in life. But it was Jean’s voice that decided it. 

So, one morning, robed in her prettiest nightgown, 
with her lover kneeling by her; her father sitting on 
the side of her bed because he was too weak to stand; 
with the doctor, the nurse, and Aunt Lavinia (crying 
softly) gathered at the foot of the bed; and the coloured 
contingent at the door — Jean Dabney took the vows that 
made her Archer McLain’s wife. 

Let us pray,” said Dr. Dabney, and he knelt beside 
the young man as he had done that day on the porch. 
That time was in the thoughts of both and of the girl 
as well. Her free hand sought her father’s; and as 
she lay thus, with one hand in his and the other in her 
husband’s, she was the bond that would forever hold 
them together. 

They had all been warned against excitement, and as 
they rose Dr. Dabney said only, wringing McLain’s hand : 

‘‘ God bless you — my son ! ” 

And from under the bride’s closed lids rolled down 
two happy tears. Then they went out quietly and left 
them to each other. 


374 THE MASTER OF THE OAKS ” 


She could not be married by her mother's ceremony 
that she loved — she was too weak for that. But 
prob’ly this will stick just as well," said Mrs. Debo, and 
doubtless she was right, for it had been entered into 
reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear 
of God," which is more than the form or the book. 

The ring she had — the same that had been fitted to 
her plump finger of last year. It had to be tied on 
now with ribbon around her wrist, like a baby’s ring, 
for she would not let it leave her hand. 

Through the beautiful spring days with their wealth 
of blossom and springing life, he nursed her back to 
health. 

It was the communion that lies in sympathetic silence 
that was theirs at first; just the happiness of being to- 
gether, without need of words. He would leave her 
sleeping sometimes and go to the open window and take 
a long, full breath of the spring air, so full of the odour 
of green things growing, and look off at the budding 
tress with their varying spring tints, thinking what a 
beautiful world it was — when one’s eyes were opened to 
see it. 

When she was able he would take her in his strong 
arms and carry her downstairs and out upon the porch 
where they had sat two years ago, and put her in the 
invalid’s chair that had been his, and bundle her up in 
shawls and comforters and call them steamer rugs, and 
put his cap on her for a steamer cap, and read to her 
about the things they would see when the voyage was 
over. The voyage was what he called her convalescence. 

It was on the porch, where Jean and not himself 
was the centre of interest, that he met his neighbours, 
one by one. 

He had dreaded this, but with Jean there and the con- 
versation naturally turning in her direction it was man- 
aged without his becoming the figure in the foreground 


WITHOUT BELLS 


675 


that his fears had made him. The story of Mrs. Debo’s 
part in bringing them together was oft repeated and 
never doubted, for Drusilla’s reputation for truth was 
established in that neighbourhood. It added to her al- 
ready excellent reputation as a woman of resource and 
courage. When Jean was able to travel he took her 
abroad, and under Italy’s blue skies and beside Como’s 
bluer waters he and nature wooed her back to health 
and happiness. 


XXXI 


GOD’S BEST GIFT— WORK 

the wedding ring and the wedding journey 
the end of all for faithful lovers? 



Nay, verily! 

They are but the fanfare that ushers in the real 
drama. That, for most of us, is neither a glitter of gold 
nor a succession of novel sights and sounds ; but a sober 
play, with a mingling of comedy and tragedy; of lofty 
emotional flights here and there, with long stretches of 
commonplace in between; and endless rehearsing that 
must be done with no inspiring vision of the footlights 
before our eyes. Few of us play to crowded houses; 
but the drama is a noble one in spite of that, — and it is 
worth our best endeavour. 

To Jean and Archer McLain it began when the bliss- 
ful wedding journey was over; — with its loiterings in 
pleasant places, its dropping into bypaths and emerging 
upon the highways of travel; its threading of the way 
through picture gallery and cathedral aisles and show 
palaces to come out again into the open of a day on 
the Rhine or a coach trip through England. To the girl 
it was all pure delight ; and to the man, something deeper. 
He would have prolonged it if he could. His heart beat 
a funeral march as he bought tickets for the return. 
But Dr. Dabney was not well, and Jean herself was 
beginning to feel that she wanted the quiet of her own 
home. 

Over there they had not talked much of the past, nor 
of the future. They put both from them and lived in 
the present. But with the vessel’s prow set to the west 


376 


GOD’S BEST GIFT— WORK 


377 

and the great pulsing engine bringing them each moment 
nearer to their “ ain countree, ” it was inevitable that their 
thoughts should centre more and more upon the life be- 
fore them and its dangers. 

“Archer, do you dread it?’’ she asked him one day 
as they stood watching the white spray flung from the 
prow of the advancing vessel. 

“Yes. It isn’t worth while to try to deceive you, 
Jean. I dread it. . . . I should like to have stayed in 
England for the rest of the time. . . . But we can’t 
do it, so there is use thinking of it. I couldn’t ask you 
to do it — and I know it would be useless if I did. The 
same loyalty that made you stand by me will make you 
stand by your father, now that he is old and broken. 
And — I cannot forget what has aged him.” 

“ No,” she said, “ I couldn’t leave father.” 

“ And we would neither of us be willing to even make 
the attempt to uproot him. He would not live a year 
if his work and his people were taken away from 
him.” 

“ No,” she said again, “ his life is in Tinkling Spring. 
His body might go with us, but his soul would be there.” 

“ Then in Tinkling Spring we will stay. Now that 
much is settled.” 

There was a long pause. Then she said, timidly, 
“ Archer, do you suppose there is so very much danger 
—of ” 

He drew a quick, long breath. 

“ Oh-h — it will come out some day, I suppose. These 
things almost always do. Perhaps that is a part of the 
punishment. . . . But we will not embitter our lives, 
Jean, by a continual dread of it. I have spent a good 
many years that way and I am never going to spend 
another ! . . . I have done what I can to make repara- 
tion. I have paid! and now I am going to put the 
thing behind me. We will get all the joy out of life we 
can — we are entitled to that. And we will do what lies 


378 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


in our power to bring the joy of life to some other poor 
devil. That we owe — or I do.’^ 

And what you owe, I shall help pay,” she said. 

“ ril never find you lacking, Jean ! Tve tested that — 
and it is almost worth to me what the knowledge has 
cost. . . . No, — we will do the best we can — and if 
it comes ” 

“ We will meet it together,” she finished. 

It was in this spirit that they took up their 
lives. 

A scorching heat such as they had passed through 
shrivels up much of the lightness and brightness of lives, 
as of trees, but when the sap still flows and they are 
strongly rooted both spring to life in time. 

After the pleasant home-coming and the meeting with 
old friends, Jean was soon absorbed in the novel task 
of making and ordering her own home, which is a matter 
of deepest interest to all normal-minded women. McLain 
fell to work with zest upon his farm, searching out new 
and scientific methods of pursuing agriculture, to the 
irritation of some of his neighbours. He and Colonel 
Judd had many a good-natured quarrel over the “ book- 
farming” he was trying to introduce. 

They entered easily and naturally into the life of the 
community, social, industrial, and otherwise; and every- 
body was glad that the misunderstanding between them 
t — whatever it was — had been so happily ended by Mrs. 
Debo’s timely assistance. 

No wonder they think a heap of her,” said Goose 
Creek, which felt its own importance vaguely enhanced 
by Drusilla’s diplomacy. Which is just as accurate as 
we generally are in passing judgment on the acts of our 
neighbours and in finding the hidden springs whence 
they proceed. 

When Jean's baby came, the pride of possession, the 
joy of fatherhood, in McLain's face was held in check 


GOD’S BEST GIFT—WORK 


S19 


by another emotion that could have been seen flitting 
across it sometimes and sometimes not flitting. It was 
usually when he came upon her unexpectedly and found 
her looking into the boy’s face. The look on his face 
then was a thing to make an enemy weep. He usually 
turned away or hid it in some way, but one day Jean 
saw it and knew it for what it was. 

“ Archer,” she called. She had been giving the boy 
his bath and had him snuggled up in his flannel blanket 
just ready for the mystery of robing. She dropped the 
blanket across her knees and left uncovered the dimpled, 
quivering form, all legs and arms. 

“ Kneel down here by me. I have something to tell 
you.” She put her arm around the man’s neck and 
brought her lips close to his ear. . . . There isn’t 
a mark — of any kind — upon him ! ” she whispered. 
perfect!’’ 

During the winter after their return McLain had but 
one man besides Sandy to help him, — a man named 
McMurtrie. Nobody knew him nor where he came from, 
but he proved a faithful hand whose only fault was his 
periodical absences of a day. Though this was with 
McLain’s consent Mrs. Debo bitterly resented it. 

The man’s triflin’ ! ” she told McLain. 

Oh, no, he’s not. You may take a day off yourself 
whenever you want it. It does a man good to get away 
from home sometimes, and a woman too.” 

She knew he was laughing at her, but McLain, with 
all his good nature, was the one person of whom she 
stood in awe. 

With the opening season there was need of more 
help, but it always seemed to be forthcoming. The 
young farmer did not have the trouble that some of 
the older ones complained of. While his neighbours 
were inveighing bitterly against the superior attractions 
of '' the road ” for the peripatetic fraternity that sought 
it from April to November, the young man on the BaS' 


380 THE MASTER OF “ THE OAKS ” 


com place was seldom without help. It became matter 
for discussion as time went on. 

He can’t keep them though, any longer than we 
can,” remarked one. '' He’s constantly changing.” 

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Freno; “but did you ever take 
notice that they never up and leave him durin’ harvest 
or corn-plantin’? No, sir. McLain’s hands never leave 
him in the lurch. Somethin’ strange about that ! ” 

“ ’Tain’t strange he changes,” said Mr. Coyt, con- 
temptuously. “ He don’t have nothin’ but boys ! I told 
him once he’d have a heap better luck keepin’ ’em if 
he would get older men, that was steadier, but he jes’ 
laughed and says, ' Well, Lige,’ he says — he calls me 
Lige, same as the rest of you do — ' boys have to live — 
while they’re gettin' steady. I was a boy onct, myself,’ 
he says, ' and somehow I never have quite got over 
it.’ ” 

“And he never will,” put in Mr. Freno. “He’s jest 
a big, good-natured boy now.” 

“ Ye-ep, he’s good-natured,” admitted Mr. Coyt, “ but, 
shucks ! that ain’t no way to run a farm ! ” 

McLain’s hands were inexperienced, most of them, but 
they were willing, and they did his work well, for he saw 
to that himself. He kept a good many men in the 
summer, and Mrs. Debo’s house was pretty full some- 
times. On one occasion she, like Mr. Coyt, went to him 
with advice. These young fellows didn’t half know how 
to work, she told him. Two good farmhands could do 
as much actual labour as four of them and save the 
board of the other two. . . . ’Twasn’t good manage- 
ment ! . . . For her part, she believed there was some- 
thing wrong with ’em — settin’ out to be farmhands! 
Then, feeling the steadiness of his eye, she admitted that 
of course it was his business, not hers. 

“ Mrs. Debo,” he said, trusting her, “ maybe there is 
something wrong with them. Did you ever think about 
there being such a thing in this world as crippled souls — 


GOD’S BEST GIFT— WORIC 


381 


and lives? . . . And if you knew of any such wouldn’t 
you like to have a hand in straightening them ? ” 

She gave him a startled glance, but asked no questions. 
From that time on he needed no better helper than Mrs. 
Debo. He had touched the right string. 

McLain treated his men well, — fed them plentifully, 
housed them in comfort, paid good wages, and exacted 
good work. He was on friendly terms with them and 
so was his wife. On Sunday afternoons they were al- 
ways invited to the library for an hour or so of singing, 
for Jean conceived that a voice was a gift to be used, 
and the men were fond of hearing her. 

She sang whatever they asked for, and they called 
for startling things sometimes, as when McMurtrie, who 
had been a soldier in the Spanish-American war, and 
was never tired of talking about it, though reticent as 
to his life since, asked suddenly one Sunday after “ Jeru- 
salem the Golden,” and “ There is a Green Hill Far 
Away,” if she would sing A Hot Time in the Old Town 
To-night.” 

She found the music without the quiver of an eyelid, 
and together she and McLain sang it, with a swaying 
motion and a reckless abandon that stirred the sluggish 
singing blood of the men, and when at the persuasive 
refrain McLain turned and by an imperative motion of 
his hands invited their support, they rose as one man, 
and the volume of sound that broke forth was a wonder 
to hear, and to no one more than to their own astonished 
selves. 

To the singers it was the infectious rhythm of a 
rollicking song, but to the man who evoked it and could 
not sing it was far more. To him it came as the echo 
of the God-speed ” with which he and his comrades 
had been cheered on to war. 

With the first strain Memory had him back in the 
close-packed train, about which a crowd of their fellow- 
townsmen had gathered to do them honour. In his ears 


382 THE MASTER OF ‘‘ THE OAKS ” 


was the blare of the brass band and the volume from 
hundreds of throats splitting themselves over this song; 
in his vision was a fluttering of handkerchiefs, a waving 
of hats, a stretching of boyish heads out of windows to 
catch last glimpses, and most distinct of all — though in 
the far background, — a little woman whose handkerchief 
was not fluttering because it was in other use. 

The man rose with the rest at that refrain, but it was 
to step out on the porch with Jean's baby in his arms. 
He came back when the song was over, and they were 
still looking at each other in amused embarrassment that 
they should have so far forgotten themselves, and re- 
marked to the man nearest the door that it was too much 
of a head-splitter for a fellow that didn’t sing. And 
when he brought her baby back to her, Jean — seeing 
the human look in the eyes that had always avoided 
hers — wondered if after all “ A Hot Time in the Old 
Town ” hadn’t been “ sacred ” music. 

Then they sang “ Home, Sweet Home,” which was 
what they always closed with, and when it came to the 
chorus McLain turned to them again with a gesture of 
invitation, and again they took it up, but this time softly 
and with eyes that scrupulously avoided everything and 
everybody except the baby, who was passed from one 
to another as need came. For to men like Archer 
McLain’s hands, unaccustomed as they were to this sort 
of thing, a woman’s voice, a baby’s touch, and a song of 
home, was a moving combination. 

Then when the singing was over, simple, homely re- 
freshments were passed by Jean and Sandy, who took 
unstinted pleasure in his office of helper, — doughnuts and 
cider, or apples and nuts, walnuts, hickory nuts, and 
hazel nuts from the farm, — sometimes in their season 
paw-paws or wild cherries brought in by the men, and 
when November’s frosts had robbed them of their 
“pucker,” persimmons from the tree down in the pas- 
ture, or wild grapes that climbed up out of reach of 


GOD’S BEST GIFT— WORK 


383 


anybody but able-bodied young men, eager to do some- 
thing hard. Jean called on them freely to help in the 
preparation for this Sunday afternoon feast, and there 
was never a man among them that was not proud and 
happy to be her helper. i. 

At those gatherings there was never anything didactic. 
The hands were given only music, human companion- 
ship, and — the baby. John Archer, Jr., held the centre 
of the stage, for a child is safe ground and his doings 
and sayings may be exploited by any without risk of 
embarrassment or fear of trenching on dangerous ground. 
Farmhands are often awkward and ill at ease. McLain’s 
were. And yet, though attendance was in no sense com- 
pulsory, nobody stayed away. If ever “ At Homes ” are 
a success, Jean had a right to feel that hers were. 

They were not religious men. Dr. Dabney’s church 
had no attractions for them, nor was there any attempt 
to influence them in this direction. But when Archer 
McLain’s sitting-room was opened to them and their 
attendance asked by the gracious mistress of it, they 
came as one man. They were met as men, treated as 
men, and involuntarily they stretched themselves up to 
the stature of men. Perhaps the making themselves fit 
for friendly intercourse with a good woman in her own 
refined home was to them a religious act. Who can 
say? 

McMurtrie left them after a while. He had some time 
ago abandoned his periodical absences and settled down 
on the farm to stay. He had a talk with McLain soon 
after the singing of ‘‘ A Hot Time in the Old Town To- 
night,” and the result of it was that McLain went over 
to Colonel Judd, who had recently lost his negro house- 
keeper, and laid the man’s case before him. McMurtrie 
had been separated from his wife — not divorced, but 
separated. He wanted to get her back, but he had noth- 
ing to offer her in the way of a home. Wouldn’t he 
like to take the two — the wife as housekeeper, the man 


384* THE MASTER OF ‘‘ THE OAKS ” 


as foreman on his farm? He was a good hand, thor- 
oughly reliable, but Then followed some explana- 

tions into which it is not necessary for us to go. At the 
conclusion Colonel Judd nodded comprehendingly and 
agreed. 

The result of it was that in a short time there came 
to the neighbourhood a shrinking, subdued looking 
woman with a child that clung to her and seemed a little 
afraid of McMurtrie. And McLain lost a capable 
hand a few days after, and Colonel Judd gained a very 
competent housekeeper who watched over him as a daugh- 
ter might. The man made good with Colonel Judd, for 
he had much at stake. 

Meanwhile, as wife, mother, daughter, neighbour, and 
helper to her husband in all good undertakings Jean was 
finding her life sweet and full. 

One day McLain after a short trip brought back with 
him a young man to whom her heart went out. He had 
been ill, which might account for his pallor, — but even 
that could not explain the hopelessness of his eyes. 
They took him into their own house, for he was not 
quite like the other hands. He had been very ill and 
spent long hours on the south portico as he was directed, 
but he did not improve rapidly. It seemed almost as 
if the mainspring were broken. 

Jean tried in gentle, unobtrusive ways to gain his 
confidence, but without much success, until some chance 
word broke down his restraint and he put his head down 
on the arm of Grandfather Charlton’s old sofa and 
brokenly told her all about it. He had been engaged, 
and they were to have been married this summer, but — 
he had gone wrong — and he couldn’t hold her to it—* 
after that. 

‘‘ No, not unless she wanted it so,” Jean said. 

He looked up quickly. 

Do you think it would be right to do it — even 
then?” 


GOD’S BEST GIFT— WORK 


385 


That is a question for her to decide — not you. It 
may be that she would be happier with you — even yet — 
than apart from you. It all depends on the strength of 
her affection.” 

They had neither of them ever loved anybody else, 
he said. That was why it was so hard on them. 

“ Then let her decide it,” she said again. 

She told McLain the story that night, but he was 
apathetic, she thought, and she told him no more of 
John Marner’s confidences. 

One day, however, after the young man had been there 
long enough to prove himself, McLain said to his 
wife : 

“ Jean, I have a notion of making an investment, and 
I want your advice. . . , You know that knoll over 
west that we have always said would make a pretty 
site for a house? . . . Well, Fm thinking of cutting 
off forty acres about there for a small farm and putting 
John Marner on it. He’s going to come out all right. 
I would put up a small cottage on it, supply the stock 
and farm implements necessary, and either rent it or 
sell it to him on easy terms. . . . What do you say ? ” 

“Oh, Archer, do it! She wants to come. But they 
haven’t anything to begin on ! ” 

The plan was carried out in time, and they were 
married in Jean’s living-room, going directly to their 
own little home where everything was in readiness, even 
to the supper for two which Mrs. Debo had prepared 
and taken over. 

To Dr. Dabney, who had been told nothing of the 
life history of these two, the conviction slowly came as 
they stood before him, the man whiter than the girl, 
that this was no ordinary marriage. Perhaps he had 
some faint dawning of the truth, for he prayed from 
the heart that “ their feet might be kept from falling, 
and their eyes from shedding tears.” He wiped his 
glasses thoughtfully when it was all over and the young 


386 THE MASTER OF THE OAKS ” 


couple had been started off with Sandy as driver in 
McLain’s new carriage. 

The thought gathered strength as they sat down to- 
gether, the four of them, to the evening meal at Jean’s 
table, and made him abstracted ; and its cumulative force 
led him to grasp his son-in-law’s hand at parting with 
a trembling, and to Miss Lavinia entirely irrelevant, 

God bless you — my son ! ” 

When they were all gone Jean and McLain sat in the 
gloaming before the open fire, Jean with the sleeping 
babe in her arms. She had a guilty feeling that he ought 
to be in his little bed, but the lure of the twilight and 
the firelight held her, and the warm little pulsing body 
close to her was a part of the comfort. 

They sat thus — he in the great leather rocker and 
she in the little sewing chair with not even a table be- 
tween them — watching silently the parting asunder of 
a spent log that lay on Grandfather Charlton’s old brass 
andirons, their gaze riveted upon it as if they saw nothing 
in all the world but this impending dissolution. But it 
was not so. The thoughts of both, made strangely ten- 
der by the scene they had just witnessed, were upon — 
not death, but life — upspringing, revivified life; the life 
of the individual and the life of the world. 

It was this larger, more abstract phase that occupied 
the man’s mind as he sat staring into the fire depths. 
With a broadening outlook and a power of discernment 
that seldom come except with years or a deep ex- 
perience, he saw it as a panorama continually unrolling — 
life in its vastness, its solemnity, its mystery of begin- 
ning and end, its tragedy, its wreckage, its despairs. 
But he was seeing deeper than that. Ah, yes ! For his 
spiritual vision had been cleared, and while there is all 
of this in life, there is infinitely more — and God be 
thanked ! 

Unfolding before his quickened inner sense as he 


GOD’S BEST GIFT— WORK 


387 


mused upon it came life’s marvellous powers of renewal ; 
its hopes eternally upspringing; its opportunities to re- 
gain a measure at least of that which was lost; its sweet- 
ness — he closed his eyes at that, listening to Jean’s lul- 
laby; its endless possibilities of new aims, and nobler 
aspirations, and — yes, and accomplishment. For it was 
possible for a man to accomplish — even a man who had 
been down into the depths. ... Not the same aims, 
perhaps — he half smiled as he thought how trivial the 
objects that engrossed him now would have seemed to 
him once; — how puerile those that engaged him once 
appeared to him now. — No, not the same, certainly, but 
those that would be as satisfying in the end. 

A new and overpowering sense of the stupendousness 
of life, and the grandeur of it all came over him. It 
was a glorious thing to have a part in it. All was not 
lost while there was work in the world to do, and power 
and place to do it. He could afford to leave the saving 
of the Nation to others now, and till the one little field 
of briers that was his. He had made a bare beginning — 
he was very humble to-night and did not overrate his 
work — but already he was beginning to see results. . . . 
It was good to have been able to give the boy a chance ! 
He was eager to prove that he could make good. 

By a circuitous route which took in the whole of poor 
struggling humanity he had at last reached the one con- 
crete case which had filled Jean’s mind from the first; 
for with a woman’s quick sympathy and her inborn 
love of romance, she had been dwelling upon the new 
home-life starting into being in the little cottage, and 
the warming of another hearth. When she spoke it 
seemed like the echo of his own thought, which is one 
of the joys of silent intimate companionship. 

“ Archer,” she said, softly, “ it is like creation. I 
understand now what it is for a man to be ^ a co-worker 
with God.’ You have made life possible for him.” 

“ Yes,” he answered, gravely, I suppose it is so. But 


388 THE MASTER OF ‘‘ THE OAKS ’’ 


I am only passing it on. Do you know, Jean, ... do 
you know ” 

The log parted and fell, scattering its ashes. McLain 
took the tongs and laid the two halves carefully together, 
stooping then to throw on them a stick of dry hickory 
that sent a shower of sparks up the chimney’s throat. 
He stood watching it as the tiny flame caught and spread 
and leaped from point to point, — ^thinking of that other 
night and that other flame he had kindled here and the 
words of bitter anguish he had spoken : Thus is our 
hearth fire lighted — and thus it goes out ! ” . . . God 
had been very good to him ! 

He turned then, looking down at her as she sat rock- 
ing the boy — his boy — the firelight touching the bur- 
nished bronze of her hair into a very halo. To him at 
that moment they were the Holy Mother and Child, and 
with a sudden ecstasy of soul he knelt beside her and 
gathered them both in his arms. But she did not know 
the flood of emotion that was upon him, and when he 
looked into the untroubled depths of her eyes, she de- 
manded playfully: 

Do I know — what? ” 

It was a full minute before he answered her, and 
when he did his voice had in it a curious mingling of 
humility and triumph and reverence and awe — with love 
unspeakable. 

“ Do you know — who made life possible — for me, 
little girl ? ” 

The haloed head rested against the brown one then, 
and together they bent over the slumbering boy, their 
hearts too full for aught but silence. 

It was the old combination that is ever new, — the 
man, the woman, the child — and the hearthstone; — the 
potent combination that is at once the root and the flower 
of our Christian civilization and the safety of the State ; 
and though the trail of the serpent had crossed their 
path and might cross it again, — still it was a better Eden 


GOD’S BEST GIFT— WORK 


389 


than that of the Garden, for they had eaten of the tree 
of knowledge and chosen the good. The curse was 
turned to blessing; for before them was work, and 
around them was love. 

And the hearth fire leaped and crackled and burned — 
and the glory of it filled the room. 


THE END 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


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